


The House of Ill Repute

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: (like a LOT of internal monologue), (not between Steve and Bucky), Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Murder, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Biting, Blood and Violence, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes needs a therapist, Bucky generally feels angry and scared for the first half of this, But the addiction is murder, Car Sex, Cigarettes, Concussions, Danger Kink, Deeply internalised feelings of general hate, Denial of Feelings, Direct Action, Dirty Talk, Don't Judge Me, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, Fear, Feelings Realization, Feelings of Helplessness, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Justifying Murder by some interesting means, Kidnapee to Lover, Kidnapper to Lover, Kidnapping, Knife Wounds, Listen I take everything that Steve is and what he stands for and I twist that shit into...this, M/M, Mind Games, Modern Bucky Barnes, Modern Steve Rogers, Motel Murder, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Nausea, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pet Names, Politics, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Power Play, Praise Kink, Protective Steve Rogers, Public Display of Affection, Public murder, Rage, References to Addiction, Semi-Public Sex, Serial Killer Steve Rogers, Serial Killers, Steve Rogers does bad things, Steve smokes like a man possessed after a kill okay?, Suicidal Thoughts, Sweet Talk, The murders are lightly detailed, There are many knives, These two definitely don't have their heads screwed on but it's okay bc we love them, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Top Steve Rogers, Vomiting, Yelling, and then there was an /inspiration/, but it's all okay in the end, death kink, defiant Bucky Barnes, excuse me while i murder on main, however brief and dismissed i thought i should mention it, insane, it was supposed to be a drabble, listen this is mostly bc i was mad at some homophobic asshole spitting insults at my gf and i, man-handling, mostly about whether or not to kill someone who doesn't deserve it, motel sex, non-consensual restraints, not between steve and bucky, okay guys, planned murder, so does steve tbh, there's a lot of murder okay? don't look at me, there's gun kink if you squint, thigh fucking, this was so totally self-indulgent, threats of murder, use of chloroform, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 02:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16420346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: No one knows his face. No one knows that it's him, blond hair, blue eyes, tall, strong build, that's killing these people. No one knows it's him that chooses a random town on a map and drives there, spends the day wandering around and leaves in the afternoon, blood on his hands and another death under his belt. No one knows.Except this man.This man who sits quivering at the foot of the bed. This man who had seen Steve slip a knife into the back of another man's neck, severing the spinal cord neatly in the bathroom of a mall. This man who had seen Steve place the dead man on a toilet and shut the door. This man who had met Steve's eyes in the mirror, face already pale, mouth wide open in shock.This man.Or, the one where I churn out a self-indulgent Serial Killer!Steve, Kidnapped!Bucky fic and post it in the hopes that someone enjoys reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.





	1. Artificial Red, Smoke , Poison Consumed

**Author's Note:**

> Haere mai rā ki a Au, hui ata tākou rōpū katoa.
> 
> Okay guys. Buckle on up. I hope to all that is bad and unholy that you read the tags and that you're all geezy with what's about to come. I apologise for any inconveniences. However! I have tagged as well as I can. Please take care of yourself and turn away if this isn't your thing! 
> 
> Also, let me just, like, take a moment and thank Vagabond (aka Jesse whom I love and cherish) for, one, inspiring the fuck outta me to write this and, two, being my goddamn cheerleader throughout and, three, betaing this for me when it was finally done. THANK YOU. Please go check out her works on AO3 @ [TheVagabondBoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVagabondBoy/pseuds/TheVagabondBoy) because they're fucking AMAZING and please follow her on tumblr @ [thevagabondboy!!](https://thevagabondboy.tumblr.com) (Seriously thank you a million times I love you) (Killer Queens for life)
> 
> OH! And a blanket thank you to everyone in the Stucky AU BB Slack for putting up with my snippets and general yelling!! Thank you for your support!! 
> 
> Aaaaaand I haven't slept very much so I'm just gonna. Leave this here. I'm sorry? You're welcome? Idk my dudes but I had a damn good time with this. It doesn't help that I distracted the fuck outta myself from my Stucky AU BB fic but HEY NOW that's how it _works_ sometimes, okay? 
> 
> OH I ALMOST FORGOT here have the 7 song playlist I listened to on repeat while writing this;  
> \- Arsonist's Lullaby by Hozier  
> \- In The Woods Somewhere by Hozier  
> \- Wake Up by Mad Season  
> \- Artificial Red by Mad Season  
> \- NFWMB by Hozier  
> \- Welcome To The Hell Zone by Bobby Raps & Corbin  
> \- Outside by Staind
> 
> Ngā mihi, toku hoa.

**Part One; Artificial Red, Smoke, Poison Consumed**

__ \- Artificial Red, Mad Season _ _

 

 

_ * _

The man sits quivering at the foot of the bed. He’s on his knees, hands bound behind him probably a bit too tight. There’s a piece of cloth in his mouth that he’s drooling around. The sweat beads at his brunette hairline trickle down into his eyes periodically. When he blinks the drops away he always open his eyes fast, the whites showing, as though if he shuts them for too long it’ll be all over. 

He must be exhausted; he’s been in this position for well over an hour. Before that he’d been in the back of a nondescript car, passed out with chloroform-cloth pressed to lower half of his face. No need for a blindfold; he’d already seen too much. Seen the exact thing that has brought him here. 

He’s beautiful like this, in a way that hasn’t been considered before. He’s pale, but there’s a mottled rose colour dusted high on his cheeks. His eyes, so wide, show off just how blue his eyes are. In the light of the setting sun they’d been grey. His lips, now pulled taut around the black cloth, had been so plump and red. His body is lithe, covered with a light layer of muscle. 

He hadn’t been light, but easy enough to maneuver into the back of the car once he’d slumped back into the cage of arms around him. He hadn’t stirred once during the four-hour drive, hadn’t made a single noise. At first that had been worrying, then almost relieving; if he had been dead, then there would have been nothing to deal with. 

But Steve had made the mistake of letting this man watch him kill another in broad daylight. 

Thing is, Steve doesn’t just  _ do  _ that. He never has witnesses. Never has, never thought he would. He gets off on it, the ability to weave through a crowd and choose a victim. Choose his prey. In under an hour, they’re usually dead, left propped awkwardly on a chair, against a wall, in a toilet stall. Left dead for someone to find, someone to scream at, someone to come and investigate. 

Steve knows what the media calls him. He follows each and every report there is on him. It’s a thing he does; the only predictable thing about him. He drives for four hours after a kill, holes up in a nondescript hotel and blows smoke rings while the TV drawls on about the latest victim of The Nomad. A ghost. The sick, the faceless, the demon; he has many names. 

No one knows his face. No one knows that it’s  _ him _ , blond hair, blue eyes, tall, strong build, that’s killing these people. No one knows it’s him that chooses a random town on a map and drives there, spends the day wandering around and leaves in the afternoon, blood on his hands and another death under his belt. No one knows. 

Except this man.

This man who sits quivering at the foot of the bed. This man who had seen Steve slip a knife into the back of another man's neck, severing the spinal cord neatly in the bathroom of a mall. This man who had seen Steve place the dead man on a toilet and shut the door. This man who had met Steve’s eyes in the mirror, face already pale, mouth wide open in shock. 

This man. 

Steve doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ He’d been so bewildered to find him standing there, hands still wet from the soap and water. He’d acted on impulse, the emergency chloroform-cloth in his back pocket for screamers coming in handy. He’d moved like a man possessed, grabbing at the man and holding him tight, the cloth taking him down quickly; he’d been hyperventilating. 

Steve had gotten him out of the bathroom with an arm around his waist and another holding the man’s arm over his shoulders. There had been no one in the hallway and an emergency exit—one of the reasons why he’d chosen the place—just close enough to escape unseen. It’d been more difficult getting him in the car, but not impossible. 

From then out it’d been white knuckles on the drivers wheel, a litany of curse words and his body held so tense he’d gotten one of the worst headaches in a long time. He’d just driven until the sun started going down. The motel he’d picked is a shit-hole, but it has a TV and that’s all he needs. No surprise witness was going to fuck his routine up. 

So here he is. The man had woken up an hour after being tied up and gagged, had taken a while to get up on his knees. And there he sits; quivering. Steve is halfway through a pack of Newport, the smoke gathering in a cloud at the ceiling. He hasn’t spoken. The TV continues reporting his latest kill, describing him as sick, insane, calling him to be brought to justice. 

Steve takes another drag from the cigarette, holding it in his throat until he feels the tickle of a cough and swishes it around in his mouth, blowing it out in neat o’s in the air. He closes his eyes for a moment. His cheeks burn from where the man is staring at him. 

He is lazing against the headboard, shoes still on. He’s removed the man’s shoes, left them by the door. He has an arm behind his head, the cigarette packet laying on his chest, an ashtray in the form of a empty can of beans in between his legs. He is the picture of calm and content, he knows. He is anything but. There is a gun with a sleek silencer on his lap.

He doesn’t know what to do. Logically, he should kill this man. He has more than enough means to. He could strangle him; he never gets the chance to do that, it takes far too long. He could hold him down and push against his throat until he went blue and stopped writhing. He could drug him, an overdose is easy to cover up. He could get out his needles, push air into his veins until his heart gave out. He could make it messy; leave a real horror show for someone to find. He could do it quick, he could make it slow. He could use the gun. He could just kill him. 

But he can’t. 

He blinks and looks the man dead in the eye. The man flinches, going even paler if possible. He looks like death already. Steve watches him shake, watches him sweat, watches his breathing pick up the longer Steve holds his gaze. 

He can’t kill him, because he’s done nothing wrong that Steve knows of. He needs justification. He knows that what he does isn’t  _ normal,  _ he’s never called himself  _ sane,  _ but... Before he’d started this he’d been all about truth and justice and righteousness. He’d been naive. The only way to bring people to justice, the only way to make a change is by doing it yourself. 

He’d been all about voting, all about protesting, all about spreading the word. An advocate for LGBTQA+ rights, an advocate for women's rights, and advocate for #BlackLivesMatter. He’d marched when it was appropriate, filled with a rage that not much simmered as  _ roared  _ inside him. He’d shouted, screamed, fought. 

Nothing had made a difference. 

The first time he killed someone, the first time he’d felt the warm slickness of blood covering his hands, the first time he’d knelt over a dead body and  _ grinned,  _ he’d been filled with a sense of purpose. He’d made a real difference. That man, so long ago dead and buried, probably  _ mourned  _ over, would never rape a innocent woman again. 

The people he’s killed are all people he’s caught being outwardly homophobic, outwardly racist, outwardly sexist. He’s watched them with that fiery rage flooding his veins and he’s waited for his chance. He’s stalked them, hunted them, caught them unawares. And he’s killed them. 

Each and every time he gets that feeling of satisfaction, that feeling of change, the feeling that he’s making a difference. Immediate action. Irreversible action. He’s an addict hooked on that feeling and he’s not looking for rehab. He doesn’t need  _ help.  _ He’s just looking for his next fix. 

He takes another slow drag and studies the blue of this man’s eyes again. 

“You ever raped someone?” he asks, low and rough, the smoke billowing out his nose and mouth as he talks. 

The man’s eyes go even wider, the whites showing so much Steve thinks his eyes might pop out. The man shakes his head, back-and-forth in a whip-like motion. The fear rolling off him is almost tangible. Steve hums, brings his cigarette back to his lips. He taps ash into the empty can of beans. Takes another drag. Puts the cigarette out. Sits up. 

The man flinches again, but he doesn’t blink. He holds Steve’s gaze like it’s all he has, and, if he thinks he’s going to die then maybe it is. Steve picks up the gun, sets the ashtray and cigarettes on the bedside table. He stands up, moves over to the man and sinks down beside him, their knees just touching. 

The man  _ whimpers,  _ leaning away from him as far as he can. He’s not just  _ quivering,  _ he’s shaking. Steve brings up the gun and trails the silencer over the man’s jawline, watches his eyes roll in his head, a fresh line of drool trickling down his chin as he groans, at the absolute worst of his terror. Steve studies him, fascinated. 

“You ever discriminate against a person of colour?” he asks, an edge to his tone.

The man shakes his head again, chest heaving. The motion causes the barrel of the silencer to knock into his nose and the man flinches away from it. Steve smiles, but it’s tight. He needs a  _ reason.  _ There must be something horrible showing on his face, because the man gives a full-body shudder, shoulders straining against his shirt like he’s trying to free himself from the rope around his wrists. Steve narrows his eyes.

“You ever discriminate against an LGBTQA+ person?” he asks, darkness creeping into the words. 

The man  _ sobs,  _ his eyes closing briefly as he shakes his head. Steve scowls, trailing the gun down his neck, right over his jugular. He presses the metal against that jumping pulsepoint and sneers. The man is straining away as much as he can, but Steve simply follows the movement, pressing the gun against him harder. Watches the skin there turn red. 

“You ever discriminate against a woman?” he asks, a hint of the rage that boils in him seeping through. 

The man simply shakes his head again, eyes flickering briefly to the ceiling like he’s begging God for help. Steve snaps, bringing the gun back and then lashing it across the man’s pretty, terrified face. The man screams against the cloth, the sound muffled and horrified, and Steve sits back, the gun pointed directly at the man’s forehead. 

“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” he spits, teeth bared, the gun not wavering in the slightest. 

The man  _ breaks,  _ finally closing his eyes, squeezing them shut and shaking his head. He doesn’t stop shaking it, as though he can convey everything he must want to say through the motion. He is crying, the tears hot and ugly, streaming down his face. Snot gathers on his upper lip, sweat pours down his forehead, joining the tears on his cheeks. 

Steve watches him for a little while, watches him break down even further, watches him start to hyperventilate. His face is going a little blue. Steve curls his lip; maybe he won’t have to kill him after all. Maybe the man will kill himself. 

But—Steve brought him here. It will be his fault if this man dies. His fault if innocent blood gets spilled. He sighs and shuffles away, breaking the point of contact at their knees. The effect is almost instantaneous; the man opens his eyes and stares at Steve again, eyes flickering between the barrel of the gun and Steve’s face. His chest is still heaving, and his face is still a worrying colour, but he’s looking at Steve. 

“If you’re telling the truth, you’re not gonna die,” Steve tells him, words slow as he bites them out. 

He has no idea what the alternative is, but he’ll figure it out. The man just scrunches up his face, unable to stop his crying, his whimpering, his shaking. Steve guesses he can’t blame him. He lowers the gun, holds it loose in his hand at his side. The man relaxes even more, if it could be called that, and sniffles. 

Steve rolls back onto his heels and stands. He looks down at the man for a moment, kneeling at his feet, then turns away. He sets the gun on the bedside table, lights up another cigarette. He sits on the edge of the bed taking long, slow drags, and watches the man calm himself down. Watches the blue colour fade from his face. 

Steve watches him. 

He burns through his cigarette, and once he’s put it out and stands up again. The man flinches, but Steve just walks past him into the bathroom. He turns the TV off on the way; the topic has moved away from him. At the basin he pulls off his shirt, leaving him in an singlet. He wets the top and returns to the man. 

He hasn’t moved, but from behind him Steve can see how purple his hands are. He almost winces; he’s tied them far too tight. To his credit, he’s got very minimal skill with kidnapping. Rope-tying is not on his list of important things to know. 

Steve moves around to the front of the man, making his presence known with heavy footsteps. He settles down opposite him again and meets his gaze. The man still looks terrified, but there’s exhaustion in the lines of his face, now. It’s like he knows he’s not gonna die now, so he lets himself feel something other than fear. 

Steve reaches forwards with the wet shirt and grabs the back of the man’s head when he flinches away. He cleans his face gently, only scrubbing when he has to. He wipes away the sweat, the tears, the snot, the drool. He maintains eye contact the entire time, watching the man’s eyes glaze over with desperate confusion. 

“I don’t know what to do with you,” Steve confesses, frowning at him once he’s set the shirt aside. The man frowns harder, his quivering never ceasing. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Steve goes on. 

The man’s eyes widen a little bit more, understanding flooding them. Then his brow creases again, his expression playing like a movie of the thoughts going through his head. If he hadn’t chosen that moment to go to the toilet, if he hadn’t been so quiet in the bathroom, if he hadn’t walked out of the stall and  _ seen everything,  _ he’d still be living his life like normal. 

Instead, since all of that happened, he’s here. With a serial killer who doesn’t know what to do with him. Steve quirks a crooked smile at him as the man’s face crumples into a look of heartbroken disbelief. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “But you did. You saw me, so I had to take you.” 

The man has the audacity to shake his head. Steve scowls, frustration boiling over. He leans forwards, gets in the man’s face just to see him flinch again. Just to see the fear glint in his eyes. Just to see him  _ afraid _ . While he’s there, he reaches with a hand to trail fingers up the man’s thigh. He watches the man squeeze his eyes shut again, shaking his head desperately, whimpering. What sound like muffled  _ ‘pleases’  _ come through the gag. 

Steve finds the outline of the man’s wallet in his pants and yanks it out, pulling away. Like a puppet with its strings cut the man slumps, panting, shoulders shaking again. Steve watches him catch his breath. He knows he appears unstable; the man knows nothing about him other than that he’s a serial killer and a kidnapper. The man doesn’t know what to expect. 

It’s kind of exciting. 

Steve sits down on the bed again, opening the wallet. There’s coffee cards, some cash, money cards and a few other random things. He pulls out the ID card he was looking for and reads over it quickly. The man is twenty-seven, just two years younger than Steve. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was born in Indiana. The picture of him does nothing for how he truly looks.

“James,” Steve says, looking up to meet the man’s— _ James’  _ eyes. 

James holds his gaze, but he looks even more tired than before, like the fight is slowly draining out of him. Those ropes must either be really hurting by now. That, or he’s unable to feel a thing. Steve narrows his eyes at him and sets the ID and wallet aside, wondering what in the hell he can do here. 

There’s a voice in the back of his head telling him to take him home. To Steve’s home, not James’, and Steve tells the voice to go fuck itself. 

Home for Steve is a ten hour drive from here. It’s on a piece of inherited land, surrounded by scraggly bush and half-wild cattle. There’s a shack of a house that looks abandoned from the outside and homely on the inside. It’s his base, his one place where he doesn’t have to think about the world outside and how it’s going to shit. The one place he doesn’t have to think about the work he’s doing, the blood on his hands. 

He can’t bring James there. He  _ can’t.  _ But the other options are killing him, which Steve’s really not willing to do, and letting him go, which would be entirely stupid on Steve’s part; he’s already questioned James, so he knows that Steve’s got a reason for the killing, which means Steve would become just that little more predictable. He knows his  _ face.  _ Maybe he should have kept him blindfolded. 

Steve sighs, wanting to scrape a hand down his face and press the heels of his hands into his eyes. But he can’t do that; he needs to appear in control, or James will start getting  _ ideas  _ about ever escaping. 

“James,” Steve says again, a little thrill going through him as James’ eyes glint and he straightens up just that little bit, all of his attention trained on Steve. Steve  _ is  _ in control here. There is no illusion of that. “James, what am I going to do with you?” Steve asks, shaking his head. 

James’ face scrunches up and everything about the expression reads  _ let me go, duh.  _ Steve curls a lip, reaching over to the bedside table just to see James flinch again as his fingers brush over the gun. Steve takes his cigarettes instead, unable to help the smile as James’ shoulders slump in relief. 

Steve is playing him like a harp. He knows he shouldn’t enjoy it, but  _ he does. _ He lights the cigarette, relaxes back into the pillows and blows smoke rings into the air above him. He’s intensely aware of James’ eyes on him, watching and waiting. James can do nothing else. He is entirely at Steve’s mercy. 

Once the cigarette is gone, Steve becomes aware of the hollowness in his stomach. He’s  _ starving.  _ Normally he would have eaten more than a can of beans by now, but he was a little preoccupied. He sits up and barely glances at James; just enough to make sure he’s still watching. He  _ is.  _ He’s stopped shaking now, though, and is slumping forward a bit like he’s too tired to hold himself up now that the adrenaline has leached out of him. The position must be hell on his hands. 

Steve walks over to the duffle he’d set down beside the bed, pulls out a can of curry. It’s not like he has the time to make a sandwich before a kill. Fresh food is a rarity for him, outside of his home. 

He takes the can and opens it, digging a spoon out of the bag as well. He sits down on the bed to eat it cold, still watching James, still wondering what he’s going to do. Steve’s not going to sleep tonight, he knows. Not with James awake, too. And he has no doubt in his mind that James would use the opportunity to try and escape. Maybe even to try and kill  _ Steve.  _

Steve scowls at that, fixes the expression of distaste on James like the thought was his fault. James winces, his eyes a little foggy. Steve almost snorts. No, James wouldn’t try to kill him. He’d just run. He’d run and he’d find a phone and the police would be here in minutes. Steve would have no chance; he’s got a shoot-on-sight order. He wouldn’t get out of that alive. 

So, sleeping is out of the cards. He doesn’t really want to spend all night staring at James, despite the appeal it has. And there’s that voice in the back of his head again, whispering about taking him home. But that means claiming him. That means Steve’s making an  _ active decision  _ to kidnap him. To  _ keep  _ him. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ he bites out, suddenly furious. James flinches at the sound and Steve throws him an evil look that has James shuddering. 

Steve’s never fucked up like this before. He doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ He doesn’t want to take James home, but no other option is presenting itself. If he takes James home, he’ll have to be on guard at all times. He’ll have to make space for James, he’ll have to make sure he stays contained, he’ll have to make sure he doesn’t escape and bring everything down on Steve’s head. 

He hadn’t even been planning to go home for another month at least. 

“Fuck,” Steve says again, glaring at James. “Look what you’ve done,” he accuses, setting aside the empty can of curry. James’ eyes follow it before flickering back to Steve’s face. He looks confused, afraid, tired. Steve wants to wipe all of it away. If only he had an excuse to kill James, then none of this would be happening right now. 

He stands up, barely notices the way James is immediately alert, every muscle in his body pulled taut. Steve goes through his duffle again, pulls out what he’s looking for. Takes the rag he’d used last time. As soon as James sees what he’s doing, he’s shaking his head and pleading through the gag, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes again. 

Steve shoots him a filthy glare; it not like Steve has a  _ choice.  _ He’s at the end of his rope, forced into this decision. He strides over to James, crouches down in front of him, gets him his face. James strains away, eyes half-narrowed as he winces. Steve curls a lip and reaches for his face, chasing him when he flinches from the touch. 

Steve cups his cheek, takes a moment to revel in the way James’ breathing picks up and his frown turns desperate. “You’re forcing my hand here, James,” he tells him. “I don’t want to do this. But I can’t kill you, not until I know if you deserve to die. So this is my only other option.”

James is shaking his head, muffled  _ ‘pleases’  _ and  _ ‘nos’  _ coming through the gag. He’s crying again, and Steve sighs before pressing the chloroform cloth over the lower half of his face. James fights him, shaking his head and trying to get away, but he’s breathing hard again, and soon he’s sluggishly swaying and Steve has to catch him as he slumps to the side. 

Steve pulls the gag out of his mouth and ties the chloroform cloth to his face. He waits, making sure that James really is out cold, before he’s undoing the rope around his wrists. Steve winces at the colour his hands are, feeling a twinge of regret in his gut. But, he supposes, does it really matter? 

He sets the rope aside, checks that the chloroform is working, and then lays him on his side. Steve stands and gathers his things, dumping the cans and cigarette butts into the bin. His duffel goes over one shoulders while James goes over the other. He glances around the room, double-checking, and then he’s walking through the inky black of the night to his car. 

He dumps James in the backseat again, readjusting the cloth over his face. He ties the rope more carefully this time, tying James’ hands in front of him. Steve studies his slack face for a moment too long, hands lingering on the red marks on his wrists that are already blooming with bruises. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathes, and pulls back, shutting the door. 

He climbs into the driver's seat and scrapes a hand through his hair. He groans, presses his forehead to the steering wheel. Bangs his head against it a couple of times. Allows himself a moment. 

As soon as he’s regained his composure, he starts the engine and turns the car out of the motel parking lot. There is no trace of him here. He’s got a car waiting for him to switch with halfway home, hidden away down an alley. He’ll stop in that town, swap cars, grab some food. Maybe some supplies for James. If he’s gonna be a kidnappee, he can’t let James die on him, can he? That would defeat the purpose, despite how easy it would make everything. 

Soon, his mind settles into the calm of driving. Headlights and the road are the only thing he’s aware of as he drives through the night. Every now and then he glances at James in the mirror, but the man stays unconscious. And Steve drives, turmoil raging in him.

*

Bucky wakes up just as sore and terrified as he’d been when the man had pressed the chloroform to his face again. It’s slow, the consciousness, but he gains it nevertheless. It’s something of an immense, all-consuming relief that he  _ does  _ wake up. He’d never been so grateful to open his eyes. 

He winces; the sun is rising and glaring at him through the window—of a _car_. They’re moving. He’s in a backseat. Oh... _Oh,_ _God._ He tries not to make a sound, tries not to move too much. He has no idea where he is, only that his wrists are tied and he has an absolutely _pounding,_ brain-splitting headache. 

He’s been kidnapped. 

He’s never been so afraid in his life. He still can hardly believe it;  _ him,  _ he got  _ kidnapped.  _ He’d just been using the toilet, for God’s sake! One moment he’s shaking his dick off and the next he’s watching a man slip a knife into the back of another’s neck. To say he’s been caught off guard was an understatement. 

_ Fuck,  _ he’d just  _ frozen.  _ He’d done nothing; hadn’t screamed, hadn’t run, hadn’t fought back. The man had seen him and his expression had been almost comical; absolute disbelief. And then Bucky had been in his arms—the man was  _ so strong _ —and there had been a cloth pressed to his face and he was gone. Out cold. 

He’d woken up in what he presumed was a motel room. He has no idea if it’d been anywhere near the town he’d been in previously. He’d been travelling to see his Ma, had stopped off to get a gift for her, some fancy chocolates or something. Why he’d chosen that mall, he didn’t know. Either way, he’s sealed his fate. 

The experience in the motel... Just  _ thinking  _ about it had Bucky quivering again. Shaking. Tears pricking at his eyes. He’d been so helpless, so terrified, so sure of his demise. He remembers waking to the sound of a news reporter talking about the serial killer everyone knew of, but no one  _ knew.  _ He’d woken much the same as he did now; aching, scared, confused. 

He’d known then that he’d gotten himself into the worse trouble imaginable.  

The man—the ghost, The Nomad, the man with no purpose other than to kill—had taken him hostage and tied him up in a motel room. He’d  _ questioned  _ him, asked him the strangest questions. The first one;  _ you ever raped someone?  _ Fuck. Just remembering back to the tone of his voice had Bucky feeling sick to his stomach. He’d been almost sure he was gonna get raped right there and then. 

But he hadn’t, he’d instead been interrogated, and he barely remembers any of it clearly; his mind is so foggy with fear that he only remembers narrowly avoiding pissing himself. After the questions, the man had told him;  _ I’m not going to kill you.  _

And Bucky had been  _ so confused.  _ The relief had warred with the side of his brain that was still telling him; yeah, okay, he’s not gonna kill you, but he’s clearly not gonna let you go. Where’s he taking you, then? 

He’s scared. Yeah, he’s fucking terrified. He has no idea what to do; he’s never been so helpless in his life. He has no idea how much time has passed since the man grabbed him, but he’s sure his Ma must know somethings wrong by now. People will look for him. He gets this sick, horrible feeling that they’re not gonna find him. 

The Nomad isn’t known for kidnappings. He’s known for public killings, murders so discreet they’re sometimes not noticed for  _ days.  _ If he’s ever kidnapped someone before...before  _ Bucky,  _ then it’s not been tied to him. Bucky remembers him saying;  _ you saw me, so I had to take you.  _ Bucky gets the feeling no one’s ever seen him before. 

Bucky wonders what’s going to happen. He’s so scared. He’s trying to think with a clear head, but it’s very much not working. His thoughts are jumbled, replaying the scene of the man tracing the barrel of a gun over his cheek, of the man carefully cleaning his face, of the man blowing smoke rings. He doesn’t want to begin imagining what’s going to happen to him, but he can’t help it. Instead of starting to make plans of escaping, he thinks about his body in a ditch, he thinks about that fucking gun, that bloodied knife. 

His breathing must have picked up or something because the car’s slowing down. It’s pulling over, tyres crunching on gravel. Bucky bites down on his lip—he’s not gagged anymore, he realises absently—and chokes down the whimper. God, he’d been so pathetic, begging for his life, making a mess of himself. He’d been entirely at the man’s mercy. He hadn’t even  _ tried.  _

The car comes to a stop. Bucky tries to breathe shallowly, but it makes him dizzy. The cloth is still over his face, but it must not be potent enough to keep him under. He hasn’t eaten in God knows how long. He feels at the end of his tether, but he tells himself this could get a lot worse and he needs to calm down. He cannot dissolve into the mess he had last time. 

“James?”

Bucky flinches. He can’t  _ help  _ it. He’s absolutely petrified of this man. He plays him like a fucking  _ harp,  _ plucking at his strings and making him scream at will, cry when he wants, wince back when he feels like seeing Bucky whimper. Bucky’s every atom is attuned to this man, because he holds his fate in his hands. He holds the power here. 

“James, I know you’re awake.”

Bucky resolutely keeps his mouth shut, but he can’t help looking over to the driver’s seat. He can see the man’s shoulder, the length of his arm, the tight grip he has on the steering wheel. The man turns his head and Bucky traces his eyes over the cut of his jaw, the jut of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes. Feels his stomach turn over. 

“Silent treatment?” the man asks, something amused in his voice. “Fine. I just wondered if you needed to piss.”

Everything about that makes Bucky confused. He doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to admit that as soon as the man mentions it his bladder feels like it’s going to burst. He swallows against a dry throat. He doesn’t think he can actually get up. Just here, laying down, not moving, feels like he’s going to throw up. His head is spinning even as it splits open. 

The man snorts, turning to face the front again. “Look, James. You made a mistake. You saw me. I had to take you, and I can’t kill you. So I have to keep you. It’s as simple as that. I’m trying to be nice here. Do you need to piss, or not? Because if you piss yourself in my car, I’m not gonna be happy.”

Bucky shudders at the dark tone, and the inhale of breath he takes turns his stomach. There’s impatience prickling from the man and Bucky can  _ feel  _ it. He breathes shallowly from his nose, the nausea climbing high in his throat, saliva pooling in his mouth. Fuck, he’s gonna throw up. All his resolve about not being so weak in front of his kidnapper slides out the door the moment his stomach heaves. 

“Gonna—” he chokes out, and groans, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“What? You’re gonna—” the man spins around in the seat, eyes wide, before his face twists into a snarl and he’s out of the car in an instant. “Oh, no, you fucking don’t,” the man growls.

Bucky’s not sure how the man moved so fast, but suddenly the door behind Bucky’s head opens and there’s hands under his armpits and he’s being hauled ungraciously up and out, taking increasingly fast breaths. The man shoves Bucky to his knees in the gravel on the side of the road, pushing his head forwards. Bucky’s hands are tied, so he can’t lean on them, but the man holds his shoulders while Bucky heaves out the depressingly minimal contents of his stomach. 

As he chokes out the vomit and bile, there’s a voice in the back of his head telling him how pathetic this is. He almosts wants to die. The man has claimed him; told him that he has to  _ keep  _ him. It makes Bucky’s stomach turn again, but all he does is dry heave, which takes the pain in his head to unbearable levels. He moans, drool hanging from his lips as he shakes through the convulsions, his whole body devoid of strength. 

“Done?” the man asks in a low voice from somewhere above him. 

Bucky just makes a small noise and nods. The man makes him straighten up and Bucky goes like a ragdoll, head hanging limp, body loose and weak. The man sighs, as if he’s  _ annoyed  _ at Bucky’s state, and the hands disappear from his shoulders. 

Bucky opens his eyes, stares blearily at the mess in the gravel before him. He tells himself to get up, to run, but he can’t. God, he can’t even  _ attempt  _ to move. He literally cannot even try to escape. He wants to sob, because he realises that even if the man has decided not to kill him, Bucky’s probably gonna die anyway. 

He hears the gravel crunching under boots and tries to look alert. “Here,” is all the warning he gets before there’s something pressed against his lips. He flinches away, but there’s a hand at the back of his head pushing him forwards. In his confusion, the thing gets forced past his lips and then cool water is flooding his mouth. 

The sound he makes is not something to be proud of, but any and all of his pride is  _ long  _ gone. His eyes slip shut again and he relaxes, taking long pulls from the bottle, gulping down the water. He whimpers when it’s taken away, his mouth open to protest, but then he catches the scowl on the man’s face and thinks better of it. 

“Need a piss, too?” the man asks, voice devoid of emotion. 

Bucky closes his eyes. Okay, maybe he had a little bit of pride left, because he just felt more of it get ripped away with that question. “Yes,” he says quietly. 

The man snorts. “Go on, then,” he says, and walks away.

Bucky takes a careful breath. He feels just a little bit fresher, his head a tiny bit clearer after the water. His hands are shaky still bound with punishingly tight rope—though not as tight as it had been in the motel, he notices, though he also sees some bruising around his wrists. Still, even in his circumstances he’s able to undo his fly and get his dick out to relieve himself. 

When he’s done, he barely has time to tuck himself away before he’s being hauled up again. He bites back a yelp and tries to stand, but his legs give out and his head spins, black spots blooming in his vision. The man all but shoves him into the backseat, slamming the door behind him. Bucky lays there, blinking as his sight slowly comes back to him. His headache is back in full force, if not worse. 

The man gets back in the driver's seat and is pulling back onto the road in the next moment. Bucky takes his time to orient himself. The water bottle is next to him, he realises, and he wastes no time in trying to get into a position where he can grab it. He struggles to sit up, but he manages, and eventually he’s slumped against the door, legs out in front of him. He notices he’s not got his shoes on, still. For some reason the realisation makes him even more uncomfortable. 

The feeling takes a holiday the moment he’s gulping down water again. 

“Slow down,” the man bites from the front. 

Bucky doesn’t. The man can go to fucking Hell. 

The car jolts as the man pumps the break and Bucky chokes on the mouthful of water. He pulls the bottle away, coughing and spluttering, water trickling out of his nose. “What—” 

“You’ll make yourself sick again,” is all the man says, now driving normally again. 

Bucky shoots him an incredulous look, but catches the tight look on the man’s face—he’s sitting behind the passenger seat, so he gets a good look at the man’s profile—and smooths his expression out. When no other words are spoken, he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes slow sips. Fine. He’ll play by the rules. He can already feel his clarity coming back to him. With some food he should be able to think about escape. 

They drive on. Bucky formulates plans, thinks about darting forward and wrapping his tied wrists around the man’s neck. He thinks about leaning back and smashing his bare foot into the side of the man’s face. He thinks about throwing himself out of the car door. He thinks about  _ many _ things. 

But ultimately Bucky wants to live. And the man is driving. Unless he wants to cause a crash and possibly kill both of them, he needs to behave. So he sips the water and focuses on not throwing up again. His headache has eased slightly, but it still pounds at his temples. His shoulders ache from the position they’d been held in at the motel. His whole body feels like one big bruise, actually. His stomach is hollow. 

He is so fucked. 

He closes his eyes and rests his head against the window, the cool glass feeling like heaven. “Where are we going?” he asks, the words quiet and cracked. As soon as they’re out there, he wants to swallow them back down. He doesn’t open his eyes to gauge the man’s expression; he’s sick of the way his heartbeat picks up when he’s getting glared at. 

But the man replies, instead of the silence Bucky had been expecting. “A safehouse,” the man says. “We’re not far away now.” 

Bucky opens his eyes, feeling tentatively emboldened by the easy answer. “How long have we been driving?” Ever since he woke up, all he’s seen are trees. He has no idea where they are. 

The man simply snorts, shaking his head. He looks amused. It’s infinitely better than the anger Bucky had been expecting at the less-than-obvious question of their whereabouts. There’s no answer given, and Bucky sighs, looking away again. More silence. At some point, the road narrows and turns to gravel. There hasn’t been another car for half an hour. 

At this point, Bucky is getting scared again. Of  _ course  _ The Nomad has a safehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere. He feels off balance again as the realisation takes another hit at him; he’s been kidnapped. He is not going to be able to escape easily. He has no idea where he is. He has no idea what this man wants with him, other than that he’s not going to kill him, and he’s not going to let him go. 

Bucky doesn’t even know his name, he realises. It feels almost  _ odd  _ that Bucky doesn’t know the name of his kidnapper. And—with another sick twist in his stomach—Bucky remembers that the man had said he was gonna  _ keep  _ him. Surely it would be okay to know The Nomad’s name? If Bucky’s gonna be  _ kept?  _

And, not that he wants to be kept, not that he’s  _ giving in,  _ but. He wants to know the man’s name. He feels like that might give him some kind of leverage. That it might put them a little closer to the same level. That it might give Bucky some semblance of being human, instead of helpless and entirely at the man’s mercy. 

He chews it over long enough before he asks. “What’s you name?” The words come out quieter than he’d wanted, and he clears his throat. 

The man is silent for a while. Bucky’s almost sure he’s not gonna answer, but then; “Steve.”

The man’s name—Bucky’s kidnapper, The Nomad, the fucking famous  _ serial killer— _ is Steve. Bucky blinks. It puts everything into perspective in the weirdest way; it makes the man— _ Steve _ —seem human. Before, he’d been a nameless guy who had gone years without getting caught murdering people. Now, he’s a guy named Steve. 

Well, Steve had still killed all those people, had still kidnapped Bucky, had still hauled Bucky around like he was nothing but an inconvenience and put him through an already horrible ordeal that Bucky had no idea how was gonna end. But—putting a name to him? It made Bucky realise that someone had named Steve, had probably held him in their arms and given him a name, given him life, just as everyone else had. 

The Nomad was human, and that made him all the more terrifying. 

As Bucky’s brain reels in the backseat, the greenery on either side of the gravel road thickens. The road grows thinner. The car hits a couple of potholes and Bucky jolts, immediately alert again. But on Steve drives, taking no notice of Bucky in the back seat. 

Anger wells up in Bucky, fiery hot and sudden. He’s almost startled by it, but he figures that some of the shock is wearing off, making room for more emotions as he processes what’s happening to him. He’s furious; furious at Steve, who is acting like Bucky is nothing. Who faces the road and doesn’t even glance back to see what Bucky’s doing, like he’s unafraid and unconcerned. Completely unfazed about the fact that Bucky is awake in the backseat and could be about to do any one of those things Bucky’s had imagined. 

He wants to hurt Steve back. He wants to hurt him so bad Steve doesn’t get up again. 

Bucky swallows, shocked at the thought. But it sits right in his gut and stays there. He glances out the window and sighs. Even if he escaped, he’d probably die in that forest. He knows nothing about keeping himself alive outside a city. Even if he followed the road, he’s so weak and empty with hunger that he’d probably collapse and die before any signs of civilisation appeared. 

“We’re here.”

Bucky starts, attention flying to Steve like a dog to it’s master. He scowls, immediately angry at himself. He wants to ignore Steve, not react to him, appear unbothered by the whole situation. But that makes him feel like a kid trying to ignore their parents to teach them a lesson.  

He can’t fucking  _ win  _ here, and that leaves him feeling even more hopeless than before. It drives home like a fucking dagger to the heart that he is at Steve’s mercy, unless he does something drastic, like bash Steve over the head with a brick or something. Bucky could steal his car. He’s have a chance, in that situation. 

Okay, so he has a plan. There. He just has to assume Steve will ever let him out of these fucking ropes, leave him unbound and free to roam whatever kind of place this safehouse is. He just has to assume he can catch Steve unawares, which—he has once, hasn’t he? It’s what got him into this mess. He can do it again. 

Abruptly, he remembers Steve’s words and he focuses on the road in front of them. There’s no sign of any ‘here’ that Steve means; the road just keeps going. Maybe Steve’s insane, as well? Fuck, maybe he’s completely lost his marbles and ‘safehouse’ means he’s just going to keep driving down this fucking road until Bucky starves and dies. 

But all of a sudden Steve’s turning down a driveway that isn’t marked at all; it’s a vague gap in the trees. The road itself can barely claim that name; it’s mottled by tree roots and deep potholes. It’s dirt and in some places it’s nothing more than short grasses and an odd rock here and there. 

The car stops as they make the turn. Bucky realises he’s unconsciously gripping the water bottle far too tight. He relaxes forcibly, watches eagle-eyed as Steve gets out of the car and ducks down by each of the front wheels. As he slides back into the car he glances back at Bucky. Bucky just stares back, hoping that his face betrays nothing. 

Steve rolls his eyes and shifts a small gearstick. “I was putting the car into four-wheel drive,” he explains, as if Bucky asked. “You might want to put your seatbelt on.”

Bucky narrows his eyes as Steve turns back to the road. He’s feeling stubborn. He has no reason to do what Steve suggests. But as soon as they start moving again, Bucky’s brain is back to the splitting pain he’d only just been relieved of as he gets jostled around so much he knocks his head on the window. 

He thinks he hears Steve laugh quietly. The sound boils Bucky’s blood. He grits his teeth and swivels around in the seat, struggling to pull the seatbelt on with bound hands. When it clicks into place he has to spread his legs and anchor himself; the road gets worse as it goes on. He thinks the car gets stuck more than once, but Steve manages to get them out of it like he’s done it a million times. 

They don’t drive for too long. At some point they reach a gate. It’s clearly just to stop cars; any person crazy enough to be out here could just walk around it. Steve gets out of the car again to unlock the padlock on the gate and swings it open. He locks it behind them, before heading out again. 

They drive through a small stream. They drive over a hill that the tyres skid on. The drive down a hill at such a slow pace Bucky knows Steve would lose control if they went any faster. Bucky’s heart is in his throat the entire time. Where the fuck  _ is  _ he? 

He’s not in the same state he was when Steve grabbed him, he realises all of a sudden. How the fuck Steve got them out of state with Bucky  _ tied up  _ and  _ passed out  _ in the back of his car, Bucky doesn’t know. All he feels is numb, suddenly. He’s going to fucking die here, one way or another. 

He feels hopeless all over again, and helplessly terrified. 

“You’re pale. You gonna be sick again?” Steve asks suddenly. 

Bucky glares at him. Steve just rolls his eyes and looks away again. Bucky swallows and looks down at his lap, horrified to find that his own eyes are wet. His lip quivers and he takes deep, slow breaths. He  _ will not  _ cry. He won’t. He won’t give Steve that ever again. He swears it to himself, holds onto the promise like it’s all he has. 

In some ways, it is. 

The car pulls to a stop. Bucky discretely wipes his eyes and looks up. There’s a  _ house.  _ He’d been expecting a bamboo hut, at this point. But no, it’s a house. It looks abandoned, windows boarded shut and the front yard a mess of long grass and young trees. It looks absolutely terrifying. Of course this is Steve’s safehouse. It makes complete and utter sense. 

That knowledge does nothing to make Bucky feel any better. The house is still terrifying. 

“Get out of the car,” Steve says suddenly. “If you try to run, I’ll shoot you.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker down to the gun Steve has in his hand; he must have had it in the glovebox. Bucky swallows and slowly gets out of the car, stumbling as soon as his feet are on the ground. It’s well past midday now, but the grass is still wet and cold. He shivers; not even the fucking  _ sun  _ reaches here. 

Steve gets out of the car, too, and levels the gun at Bucky. 

Bucky freezes, eyes going wide, whole body locking up with fright. Somewhere in the corner of his brain he realises this exact reaction is what got him here. He’s gotta train himself out of it. Now, though, he has a fucking gun pointed at his head and Steve’s whole expression is so dark it chills Bucky to the bones. 

The gun doesn’t have the silencer on it. This makes Bucky even more scared; if Steve’s not worried about anyone hearing a gun go off, then there’s probably no one around to fucking  _ hear it.  _ Bucky swallows, nerves making him dizzy, and stares at Steve, waiting. 

Steve walks around the car and pops open the boot. Bucky doesn’t look to see what’s inside; his whole focus is trained on that gun that’s pointed at him, unwavering. Steve picks up a bag, slings it over his shoulder. “Walk,” he says. 

Bucky walks. The boot slams shut behind him and he flinches violently, cringing away from what he’s sure had been a gunshot. But there’s not bullet, and he realises it was the boot, and Steve’s walking behind him, urging him on;  _ herding him.  _ Bucky never wants to feel this again. He is  _ shaking.  _ He can’t see Steve, can’t see that gun. If Steve decides to shoot, Bucky won’t even get any warning that his death is coming. He’ll just be dead. 

But he doesn’t die. He reaches the front door, which is just as rundown as the rest of the house. The paint is peeling. There is discolouration everywhere, spiders crawling over ever inch. The windows that aren’t boarded up are so covered with grime he can’t see them anyways. 

“Open it.”

Bucky opens the door, steps inside. Immediately stops. 

The house is  _ clean.  _ This is no safe house, he realises with a shock. This is Steve’s  _ home.  _ It’s dark, but it’s furnished and  _ clean.  _ There are  _ pictures on the walls.  _ The floor is wood, but there are rugs, and there are a few pairs of shoes lined up against the wall. They’re in a hallway, but it looks directly into a lounge, where there’s a couch and  _ fireplace.  _

Great fucking God, what is going on?

“Seen enough?” Steve asks from behind him, voice dark, and Bucky jumps, glancing behind him. 

A mistake, Bucky realises quickly, because Steve is closer than he’d thought and the door is swinging shut and Steve’s  _ locking  _ it and oh, fuck. Oh, holy shit, Bucky has been  _ kidnapped  _ and he’s stuck here in side this fucking house which is Steve’s home and Steve is a fucking serial killer and Bucky is—  

Bucky is calm. 

He’s calm. He takes a deep breath and looks Steve in the eye. Steve raises one eyebrow,the gun still leveled at Bucky’s head. “Why don’t you kill me?” Bucky asks him, voice devoid of any fear. It’s a level-headed question. He genuinely wants to know.  _ Needs  _ to, even. 

Steve frowns. “Because you don’t deserve it,” he says, resolute. 

Bucky gapes at him. “And I deserve  _ this?”  _ he demands, gesturing with still-bound hands at  _ everything.  _

Steve’s frown bleeds into a scowl and he sneers, cocking the gun. “I had no choice,” he claims, the words practically a growl. 

“There is always a choice!” Bucky shouts, his voice raw and strained with the emotion screaming behind the statement. 

Immediately Steve’s whole face shuts down and Bucky wants to take the words and swallow them back up, wants to turn back time and tell himself to  _ shut the fuck up  _ because the moment they’re out of his mouth Steve’s slapping the gun hard across his face. Hard enough for him to see stars, hard enough for him to taste blood from where he’s split open his cheek on his teeth. 

Hard enough that Bucky crumples, his already weak state sending him straight to the ground. He’s choking, reeling, unable to catch himself. He hits his head against the wall on the way down, smacks his nose on the floor when he gets there. He groans, feeling shattered as he curls into a ball, trying to shield his head. 

Above him, looming, Steve simply stares at him. “I didn’t have a choice,” he repeats. 

Bucky just whimpers. 

*

Steve stares down at James with a carefully blank face. The rage in him doesn’t so much simmer as threaten to spill over. The gun’s loaded, although the safety is on. He could kill Bucky so quickly, could spill his blood over the hardwood floor and drag his body out behind the house and bury it there. 

But he doesn’t. 

No, instead he lowers the gun, tucks it into the holster at his side and carefully locks the holster; he doesn’t want James grabbing it. He crouches down and hovers over Bucky’s shaking form, watches him shudder and flinch away. 

James had gotten brave. He’d gotten cocky, and he’d started asking questions. In the car, Steve hadn’t minded it so much. Those questions had been fine. Easily answered. This one? Not so much. And then James had gone and told him he had had a choice in whether to take him or not. He’d had the gall to  _ yell  _ it at him, to draw himself up and spit the words like venom, searing into Steve’s skin. 

Steve needs to be careful. He can’t have James getting too sure of himself. He needs to keep him on edge, keep him weak, keep him unsure and easy to control. It won’t be easy, Steve already knows. James doesn’t seem like the type of person to roll over and take it. He’s still in shock, and violence seems to work well in rendering him useless. 

Thing is, Steve’s not used to prolonged violence. He’s not used to having his victims talk to him, ask him his name. He’s not used to his victims seeing his  _ home.  _ None of this is normal. None of this is safe, or good. He doesn’t want to keep James,  _ but he has to. _

He leans forwards, reaches out a hand to brush a finger down the side of James’ face. James cringes away, shutting his eyes again. Steve sighs, brings his hand back to himself. “You need to behave,” he says quietly.

James  _ glares _ up at him and Steve gets a good look at his face. His nose is bleeding, but it doesn’t appear broken. There’s a bruise from when Steve had hit him at the motel, and it looks like there’ll be a new one; he’s broken the skin over James’ cheekbone this time. He looks pale and drawn, but his eyes are dancing with fire. Steve snorts, rocking back on his heels and standing up. 

“I didn’t want this,” Steve goes on. “But you’re here now, and you’re going to behave. I won’t kill you, but if you’re not civil, I’ll have to punish you.” Even as he says it he isn’t sure how he would go about doing that. No food? No water? More hitting? He’ll figure it out. He’ll have to.

“Civil? Do you mean compliant?” James asks. He was probably aiming for defiant, but his voice is quiet and he just sounds...sad. 

Steve looks down at him, down at James laying crumpled at his feet. He takes a deep breath. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he bites. 

James scoffs, but the sound breaks off into coughing. Steve scowls. If James gets sick, he’s sure as hell not nursing him. At least the cough sounds dry. He looks over the ropes at James’ hands and sighs again. He’s going to have to tie him up somewhere. He’s not sure how he’s gonna sleep, with James in the house. 

This was his one safe place, the one place Steve could go without looking over his shoulder. Now he’s brought his work home with him for an indefinite amount of time, and it really hits him, then, the multitude of what this all means. Fuck, maybe he should just kill him. But then he’d be killing for convenience, not for a cause. And that’s just not what Steve’s about. 

“Get up,” he says, the words laced with promised violence if James doesn’t do as he says. 

James lets out a low noise and rolls so he’s on his knees. He seems to pause, his eyes fluttering shut briefly. He must be getting his bearings. He hasn’t eaten in over a day; he must be feeling it, now. But James pushes through it and manages to stand, using the wall for support as he slides up it. He stays leaning against it, too, and his show of weakness has Steve smiling. 

James scowls at him as soon as he sees the smile and pushes of the wall, swaying in place. “You ever gonna feed me? Or are you just gonna let me starve?” he asks, the sentence breaking off in a way that has Steve thinking there was an insult James bit back. 

At least he’s learning. “We’ll see,” Steve says, then reaches out to push at Bucky’s shoulder. “Move.”

James winces at the touch, but does as he’s told. His eyes flicker down to the gun briefly and Steve makes a decision to stay armed at all times. In his own  _ home.  _

They walk to the lounge. Steve flicks on lights as they go. The place is off-grid, but he has solar. There’s no TV, no fridge, no freezer. Lights and a car radio hooked up to the battery is all he’s got. The lounge is simple; couch, chairs, bookshelf and CD rack. A huge rug lays on the floor. There’s a jersey thrown over the back of the couch, a dirty mug on the coffee table, a severely dog-eared book on the floor. 

Steve takes in the way James’ eyes sweep the room, takes a moment for him to adjust before he’s pushing him forwards again. “Sit on the couch. Don’t try anything; shooting you in the foot won’t kill you,” he threatens. 

James goes, slumping into the couch cushions like they’re his salvation. It’s like all the fight goes out of him, suddenly, and he sits there staring at his bound hands like his life has already ended. Blood drips from his nose but he doesn’t make any moves to brush it away. Steve stares at him for a moment before he moves to one of the spare rooms, where he keeps his weapons, ropes, things like that. 

He grabs some extra rope and returns, almost expecting James to be gone. He’s still there, in the exact same position. Something about it makes Steve uncomfortable, like seeing the fight gone from James has put everything into perspective. He is this man’s keeper; his life is in his hands. His  _ life,  _ not his death. James now has to rely on Steve for  _ everything.  _ Food, water. If he leaves the house, he has no idea where he is, no idea where to go. He probably wouldn’t even be able to get up the driveway; Steve barely makes it every time. 

It’s a lot. He pushes the thoughts away.

Steve doesn’t warn him as he comes up behind him, instead opting to keep James on his toes. “You’re hungry,” he states, watches James jump and look up with something wild in his eyes. 

His gaze drops to the rope and flickers back up to Steve’s face, his brow creasing. Steve just comes around to the front of the couch, kneels in front of him and immediately starts tying his legs together. Unprepared, James doesn’t have much time to fight, but as soon as he’s with the programme he’s kicking, rearing back from Steve with undisguised rage on his face. 

Steve pauses, a hand dropping the rope and flying to his gun. James freezes, face torn between furious and fearful. He’s internally debating what he’s gonna do. Steve narrows his eyes, daring him. Slowly, James’ shoulders slump and he shuts his eyes like he can pretend none of this is happening. 

Steve ties his legs together. 

“You can eat,” Steve says, once he’s done. He stands up again, looks down at James. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but James just looks up at him with hatred plain as day written into every line of his being. Steve blinks. He should have expected it, but—he’s never been looked at in such a way. Anyone who could have ever hated him died too quick to feel such a thing.

“Gee, thanks,” James rasps, his lip curling into a sneer. 

Steve narrows his eyes at him, watches the defiance melt away. There’s no satisfaction in it, Steve finds. He almost prefers the defiance, and that’s when he realises that this is going to be a problem. He’s fucked. This is only going to end badly for him, or worse for James. The moment they locked eyes in that fucking bathroom, their fate was sealed. 

Steve was put on this Earth to make a difference, to take care of those who couldn’t take of themselves. To fight evil, to  _ kill  _ it where others would turn a blind eye. He’s doing good work, he’s making effective change. He was not made for this; meaningless cruelty. What he’s doing to James in unendingly cruel. But what else can he do?

“Don’t try anything,” Steve reminds James gruffly and walks away before he can hear his retort. 

In the kitchen, which is fitted with a stovetop fire, he pulls the box of kindling close and sets about making a meal. Once the fire’s lit, he closes the chimney and puts some water on to boil. He hadn’t had time to get supplies when he’d swapped the cars, not with the risk of someone seeing James, so all he has is rice and spices, and his neverending stash of canned food. 

He cooks the rice. The fire warms up the kitchen till he’s got sweat on his brow, but at least the heat will spread throughout the house. He listens carefully for any movement in the other room, but he can hear nothing. It makes him suspicious, and once the water starts boiling, he sets it aside and goes to check on James. 

He’s still there. He’s laying on the couch now, though, and staring up at the ceiling. Steve sweeps his eyes over him, looks for anything out of place. He doesn’t find anything, but he’ll be checking his weapons cache thoroughly later. He wonders if James would have been able to shuffle to the weapons room without Steve hearing. He kind of doubts it, but he won’t rule it out. He doesn’t  _ know  _ James. Doesn’t know what he’s capable of; he only knows the control tactics he’s used to far seem to work. 

Steve returns to the kitchen and puts the rice into bowls. He carries the food out to James, not bothering to walk quietly this time. James looks up the moment he’s in the room and shuffles, sitting up a little. It’s harder with his feet bound, which makes Steve think James can’t have done anything. 

“Food,” he announces, setting the bowl down in James’ lap. 

James stares at it for a moment, an expression of something akin to bewilderment on his face. Then it melts away and he’s practically  _ drooling;  _ even his stomach gives a growl that Steve can hear. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, though, and tears his eyes away from the food to narrow his eyes at Steve. Steve raises an eyebrow in question, focus drifting to the dried blood on James’ face. 

“Is this my life now?” James demands. His tone would be angry if it weren’t so defeated. “You’re gonna keep me tied up, feed me when you remember, leave me sitting on this fucking couch?” his temper climbs through the words, turning bitter and despairing. 

Steve just looks at him. He doesn’t like it either. He’s regretting ever choosing that mall. He should have fucking  _ checked properly.  _ It’s his fault just as much as it is James’. Steve sighs and sets his own bowl of rice on his favourite chair before returning to the kitchen, ignoring the sad sound James makes. He ignores the way it makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. 

He pours twin cups of green tea. With no fridge, milk is pointless if he doesn’t use it within two days, so he drinks mostly herbal teas. He brings the steaming drinks back to the lounge after stocking the fire, and sets James’ down on the coffee table, retreating to his own chair and settling down there. 

James is already halfway through his rice; he must have been shovelling it down. He stopped when Steve came back in the room, though, and now he’s looking at the tea with a frown on his face. He seems to come to some kind of realisation as he glances between the food and the drink and then over to Steve. 

“It’s not...you didn’t…” he trails off like he can’t bare to spit the words out. Steve raises an eyebrow and patiently watches the colour drain from James’ face. “Did you put anything in the food?” James manages to get out. 

Steve rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, spooning some rice into his mouth. 

James looks unconvinced. “Really? No drugs to put me to sleep again? No poison? Nothing?” 

“No,” Steve says again, frowning. He doesn’t even have any of that in the house; the only thing he has is chloroform, and that’s in the car. He’s never needed that stuff; all he ever uses is physical weapons, and the occasional chloroform. 

“Really? So I’m  _ really  _ supposed to just sit here and bide my time until I die?” James asks, tone dry, but it’s tinged with hysteria. 

Steve just looks at him. The more questions James asks, the more Steve wishes he didn’t have a limited supply of chloroform. He sighs, swallowing a bite of rice. “Look, James,” he starts, but James cuts him off.

“Bucky,” he says, and his cheeks are immediately on fire. Steve blinks at him. Is that supposed to mean anything? Apparently seeing his expression of confusion, James elaborates. “My name is Bucky,” he murmurs, scowling like he hadn’t mean to reveal that bit of information. He probably hadn’t. 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Your ID said James,” he states rather unnecessarily. 

“It’s a nickname,” James— _ Bucky— _ mutters. “Only one who calls me James is my Ma, and—” he cuts himself off, but Steve can finish the sentence for him. He doesn’t want someone like Steve using the name only his Ma uses for him. 

Steve looks down at his food, frowning at it. When Bucky doesn’t say anything else, Steve keeps eating. Once he’s done, he leans back in his chair and sips at his tea, eyes drifting to the book that’s on the floor at the corner of the rug. He’d been reading it before he left; he’s been looking forward to returning to it, actually. Now, he can’t imagine being able to sink into a book he loves with Bucky here. 

He’s really got himself into a pickle here. 

“You ever had any nicknames?” Bucky asks suddenly. 

Steve looks up in surprise, a frown on his face. “What?” he snaps, just to watch Bucky wince back into the couch and look away. Steve studies Bucky’s blood-crusted and bruised face and sighs. “No,” he says. Bucky looks at him again with careful interest. “No, I didn’t. Not any nice ones.”

The looks Bucky gives him is incredulous. “Was that—do you expect me to feel  _ sorry  _ for you?” he asks. 

Steve snorts. “No.” He watches Bucky’s expression morph into one of confusion. “I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I was sick, as a kid. Got picked on. Some of those people are dead, now, and others are living lives where they  _ think  _ they’re happy. They’re not. I feel sorry for them, but it’s not like I think about them often.”

Bucky stares at him. “You killed your childhood bullies?” he asks, his tone suggesting that he’s almost forgotten Steve was a serial killer. Or maybe it’s the fact that Steve’s killed people he knew that put a whole new spin on it. 

Steve shrugs, sipping his tea. “Just the ones that called me a fairy,” he says, a bitter smile twisting at his lips. 

Bucky hasn’t touched his tea, but he’s awkwardly managed to set his empty bowl on the coffee table. “Why?” he asks, and the word is quiet, like maybe he doesn’t want to hear the answer. 

It’s Steve’s turn to look incredulous. “Why?” he echoes with a breath of a laugh. “Because if they carried on living, they would have the chance to inflict that pain on someone else—they’d have the chance to make someone feel bad for  _ who they are.  _ I simply eliminated the possibility. Immediate action. No messing around with court systems and sympathetic judges. No rapist, no homophobe, no racist  _ ever  _ seems to get the penalty they deserve,” he spits, the fire building in him again. 

“That’s why you’re doing this? That’s why you’re  _ killing  _ people?” Bucky asks, his expression horrified. “Because people aren’t getting what they deserve?” 

Steve snorts. “That’s an understatement. Even if they get what they deserve, that doesn’t mean they won’t walk free to do it all over again. Things are changing slowly— _ so slowly.  _ I’m simply speeding things up. I’m not waiting for another hundred protests to make a difference, I’m changing things  _ now.”  _

Bucky’s quiet, staring at him with his jaw hanging open. His brain seems to be working overtime, and he shuts his mouth abruptly, looking away, down at his bound hands. He doesn’t speak again, and Steve sips at his tea, wondering what he’s thinking. He doesn’t ask, though, and instead starts planning on where he’s gonna put Bucky for the night. He’ll have to tie him to something, that’s for sure. There’s no way he can be left to roam the house, even with his legs and arms bound. 

“Do you...do you really think what you’re doing is okay? That it’s justified?” Bucky asks quietly, jolting Steve from his thoughts. 

Anger pools in his stomach and he sets his tea down slowly. He’s never been questioned like this, but he’s sure as hell thought about it. The first planned out murder he ever did had him shaking afterwards, despite the feeling of  _ rightness.  _ He’d wondered if he could really do this. If he could really justify killing people over a transphobic slur. 

The next day he’d watched a man slap his wife in broad daylight and any doubts he’d had had simply melted away like acid had drenched them. There are worse people in the world than him. He’s just getting rid of them. That man had been dead by nightfall, and Steve hadn’t felt anything other than the scales shifting a little further to the side of the good. 

“Yes,” he answers Bucky’s question. “I do. Maybe you don’t understand, but that’s okay. Maybe you’ve never been discriminated against, or put down or hurt because of who you are. That’s good. That’s lucky.”

“I have,” Bucky says quietly. “I’ve been called filthy names, beaten for kissing another guy, but I never actually  _ killed  _ anyone for it.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You ever wanted to?” 

Bucky splutters, incredulous again.  _ “No! _ If I’ve ever thought about it, it was never  _ serious _ . I wanted them to realise what they were doing was wrong, sure, or at the very least for them to leave me alone, but I never wanted them  _ dead.” _

“I’m killing those people so you’ll never experience that again, Bucky. I don’t need your approval, or your understanding. But I’m killing so you don’t have to,” Steve says softly, hoping Bucky might even begin to understand, even though he’s just said it doesn’t matter. It  _ doesn’t,  _ but Steve’s never talked about this to anyone. Ever. For some reason, he feels like having someone on his side might mean something. 

Bucky shakes his head. “You can’t kill everyone who’s ever wronged someone. There’d be no one left,” he says, flint in his voice. He’s getting brave again. “And everyone deserves a second chance.”

Steve scoffs a laugh. “Everyone?” he echoes. “No. No, they don’t. Some people deserve nothing less than death. A second chance would just mean them doing something horrible again.”

“But to say you’re killing so I don’t have to is  _ absurd.  _ I don’t want those people dead!” Bucky protests, shaking his head again, now facing Steve front-on, his legs swung down off the couch so he’s sitting up again. He’s fully engaged in the argument and something about it sends a thrill through Steve. He can’t remember the last time he talked with someone for this long, and about something he’s so passionate about. 

“You might not, but you’ve not seen how bad things can get. Are you speaking for yourself, or for every victim in the world? How can you say that  _ they  _ don’t want their perpetrator dead?” Steve asks, leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees as he awaits Bucky’s reply. 

Bucky splutters, scowling at him. “You can’t take that decision into your own hands! That’s up to the authorities!” Even as he says it, his face twists like he’s tasted something bitter. “And I know you’re gonna say that the authorities are useless, or something, but you’re  _ killing people,  _ Steve. Does that not register in your fucking brain?” 

Steve stands up, hoping the thunder in his chest is displayed on his face. Bucky catches himself before he flinches back and instead holds his ground, glaring unwaveringly at Steve now. “It registers,” Steve growls. “I have killed over eighty people, Bucky. I have looked at them and decided that they were going to die, and I’ve killed them. I have taken their life in my hands and played God,” he spits. Bucky’s face is a little pale. “I’m under no delusion that what I’m doing isn’t going to send me somewhere dark and horrible when I finally die. But for now? I believe that what I’m doing is what I  _ have to do _ to make some kind of a difference.”

Bucky takes an unsteady breath, his glare smoothing out into an expression of resignation. “You’re insane,” he says quietly. 

“Maybe,” Steve replies, bland and indifferent. It’s something he’s considered. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.

Bucky shakes his head and closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping like all the energy has been sapped out of him. Steve watches him for a moment, but when it seems like he’s got nothing more to say, Steve unclenches his fists and sighs. He picks up his empty bowl, walks quietly over to Bucky and takes his, too. 

Bucky opens his eyes, watching Steve warily. Steve just turns his back on him and heads into the kitchen. He restocks the fire, puts the bowls in the sink. The leftover rice he covers and sets on the bench to put outside so it doesn’t go off in the hot room. When he returns to the lounge, Bucky is sipping at his tea. 

Something about it makes Steve feel like he’s won something. He tries not to think too hard about it. 

*

Bucky sits. He sits and he thinks. He inhales the steam from the tea Steve gave him, and he thinks. Everything that Steve’s just told him, every counter-argument he’s given has Bucky’s head spinning, but not in the sick way. He can’t stop running the words over in his head. In the end, the only argument he’s got is that it’s wrong to kill people. 

But the things is—and he really wants to stop thinking, he doesn’t want to justify anything anymore, he’s so  _ tired— _ the thing is, people kill people every day for smaller things that this. The US military  _ alone  _ has killed over fifteen hundred civilians in Afghanistan in the first half of this year. And those are just the casualties; people die by the hundreds every day. By the  _ thousands.  _

Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath and sips the tea. He’s not justifying Steve’s murders. He’s  _ not.  _ It’s just...  He’d never considered The Nomad to have an actual  _ reason  _ to kill those people. No one’s ever been able to connect the murders, they all seemed at random. There was never anything about the victims being anything but that; victims. 

Bucky wants to take all the thoughts running through his head and tell them to fuck right off. Killing someone can never be justified. 

But even as he thinks  _ that,  _ he remembers what Steve had said;  _ are you speaking for yourself, or for every victim in the world?  _ It’s true that Bucky doesn’t have anything close to the experiences some people have. He’s glad, too, it’s not like he  _ wants  _ that. But who is he to say that victims of things like rape, things like domestic abuse, things like an unwanted military coming into your country and trying to change your religion... Who is he to say those people cannot justify murdering their perpetrators? 

He can’t say that. He’s not well informed enough. He’s not got  _ any  _ experience. 

And then—he does, he realises. He’s been kidnapped. He’s being held against his will by a serial killer who is clearly on some level quite insane. He’s been drugged, pushed around, hit to the point of bleeding. He’s been... Fed. He’s had his face washed. He’s had his request to be called Bucky respected.

He  _ is  _ justifying Steve’s actions, he realises. Nothing Steve can do will make up for what he’s done. Bucky scowls into his tea and tells himself to stop thinking. When he takes his next sip, Steve returns to the lounge. Bucky can’t help but look over at him, can’t help but take stock of the gun that still rests at Steve’s side. 

Hadn’t Bucky promised to himself that he would kill Steve the first chance he got? Kill him, take his car, escape? He had. He’d made that plan. How is that any different to another victim killing their perpetrator? He’d been perfectly fine with that plan. It would free him. 

He realises then that Steve’s twisted his thinking. What Steve is doing...he doesn’t  _ know  _ those people. All he’s going off is some remark they’ve made. How can he judge someone for that? How can he not give them a chance to change their ways? Those people have done nothing to Steve, so it can’t be justified by saying that Steve’s a victim killing their perpetrator to save themselves. 

Steve’s not  _ backed against a wall  _ when he kills those people. He’s actively seeking it, going out with the intention of finding someone he deems should die. That’s not at all anything like the examples Steve had given; he’s taking precautions, but it’s  _ not  _ a precaution. It’s eliminating the threat before it even is one. 

But at the very same time, maybe those people had been a threat. Maybe they went home and beat their wives, their husbands. Maybe they raped people who screamed at them to stop, maybe they spat racist slurs at people who deserve nothing but equality, maybe they thought that ‘white, cis male America’ was the answer to everything. 

The thing that Bucky gets stuck on is that Steve doesn’t  _ know  _ if those people are like that. He’s jumping the gun, so to say. He chooses someone in a crowd, hears them call someone a faggot and decides they’re going to die. That’s not vengeance. That’s not a punishment. That’s not  _ right.  _

“Thinking about it?” Steve asks, and Bucky jumps, having forgotten he was in the room. 

_ Stupid,  _ he thinks to himself. He needs to stay aware. “Processing,” he replies.

“Come to any conclusions?” Steve actually sounds  _ curious. _

Bucky snorts, taking another sip of tea. “You’re absolutely, 100% not sane.”

Steve just sighs and returns to his chair from where he’d been hovering. He takes his mug in hand and cradles it, like he’s warming his palms. His expression his neutral and Bucky can’t tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t reveal anything, either, just sits quiet and watches Bucky like he had in the motel. 

Bucky remembers back to the motel, remembers how different the experience had been from now. It’s like Steve’s calmer here, like he’s processed what’s happened and is under control again. Bucky had been terrified that his experience would be the same as the motel, but it’s so glaringly different that he can barely wrap his head around it. He really doesn’t know what to expect from Steve at this point. 

Eventually, the silence gets too loud for Bucky’s head. “How’d you pick that guy out?” he asks. “The one I saw you kill.

Steve blinks, seeming surprised, and he sets his tea down. “He bragging about the wife he had sitting at home, how pretty and young she is and how he held her down every night while she screamed. He was talking to his friend; they were both laughing. I listened long enough to know that the screaming wasn’t because she was enjoying it,” he replies darkly.

And—that look on Steve’s face? Bucky  _ never  _ wants to see it directed at him. That’s the expression of someone possessed, someone so far gone that they might as well be carrying Hell on their shoulders. “Oh,” is all Bucky can say, feeling like a deer in the headlights, whole body frozen. 

Steve relaxes again, picking up his tea and bringing it to his face. Before he takes a sip he asks; “would you prefer I let him go home and do it all over again?”

Bucky frowns, looking down at the bruises that have well and truly formed over his wrists. “Well, no,” he says slowly. “But I don’t—I don’t get why you wouldn’t just report him.”

Steve’s silent again and when Bucky looks up his face is thunderous, but it’s not directed at him. “You really believe that me reporting him would make a difference?” he asks. 

“Yes?” Bucky says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

Steve’s shaking his head. “He was wearing a suit; respectable businessman. He had a Rolex; rich. He was  _ white.  _ Honestly, half the reason I get away with these murders is because  _ I’m  _ white. No authority looks twice at a white man disappearing through an emergency exit, if they even look at him at all. Sure, they’re learning, but I tidy up nice. No one looks at me and thinks I’m insane,” he pauses, looking Bucky in the eye. “People use their privilege in different ways. He was using it to get away with beating and raping his wife on the regular. I use it to get away with murdering people like him.”

Bucky looks away, unable to hold Steve’s gaze. He doesn’t have a reply to that. He can’t argue with that logic; it’s the damn truth. Still, he just can’t wrap his head around murdering someone. He  _ can’t.  _ And he shouldn’t have to; it’s probably good that he can’t. So he stays quiet and finishes his tea. 

Steve stands up and Bucky watches him carefully as he walks over to take Bucky’s empty cup. As he walks back into the kitchen, Bucky glances out the grimey window. Any light that had been managing to get through is gone, now. He finds himself exhausted, and that brings a whole new problem to the forefront of his mind. 

Is Steve going to let him sleep? Where’s he going to put him? He won’t just let him sleep on the couch, surely. Even tied up Bucky could escape like this. He could shuffle on the floor and find a knife, or something to cut this rope. He could use the knife to kill Steve.  _ No, you couldn’t,  _ he thinks to himself. He resolutely tells himself to shut up. If he can’t kill Steve, he can steal his car. 

_ It’s good that you can’t kill him,  _ he tells himself.  _ It means there’s a difference between you and him. You’re not a murderer.  _

“Get up.”

Bucky jumps, attention flying from where he’s been staring unseeing at the window to where Steve is standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard him come in. At the expression on Steve’s face he almost gets whiplash; he’d thought Steve had  _ relaxed,  _ but he looks stormy, like he’s incredibly pissed off. 

Bucky gets up carefully, unable to do anything other than stand. Being tied up like this is really starting to fray what’s left of his nerves, but at least the ropes are looser than they were at the motel. 

“Now,” Steve says, and Bucky watches him carefully, nervously. “I need to sleep. I can’t do that if you’re just on the couch. So I’m going to put you in the spare bed, and you’re going to lay there until I come and let you up, okay?” 

Bucky narrows his eyes, about to say something stupid like  _ you think I’m just gonna lay there?  _ But then he sees  _ more  _ fucking rope in Steve’s hand and all and any hope he had goes right out the window. His disappointment must show on his face, because Steve smiles thinly, eyes dancing with unconcealed amusement. 

“Think I was just gonna leave you free? You think I’m an idiot?” he asks, walking over to Bucky. 

Bucky cringes as Steve’s free hand brushes over the gun at his hip. Steve catches it; his smile deepens. He’s reminding Bucky of the earlier threat; he’ll shoot Bucky through the foot if he does something stupid. So Bucky simply stands where he is, waiting to see what Steve wants him to do next. 

Steve folds gracefully to his knees and narrows his eyes up at Bucky, before focusing on the rope at Bucky’s legs. Bucky near chokes; he hadn’t had a  _ single  _ sexual thought this entire time; it’s not like he was in the place to, but he can’t help the way his mind goes down the worst route it can. He spends the entire time Steve takes to undo the rope screaming at himself in his head, because  _ what the fuck,  _ brain? 

“There,” Steve says, standing with the rope in hand. “Now walk. Second room on the left.”

Bucky walks. There’s nothing he can do, really, but obey. His heart sinks again as he realises it. Talking with Steve,  _ arguing  _ with him, had made them seem almost equals. He was so terribly wrong in that delusion that it hurts to be brought back to reality. He’d had a leg to stand on, an opinion, like he mattered. Being walked to a room probably to be tied down to a bed for the night has stripped that all away again.

The room is dark, but Steve flips on a light quickly and Bucky stares around in surprise. There’s—there’s a bed, shoved into one corner, but the rest of the space is occupied by painting supplies, by canvases standing on easels, some covered with sheets, others laid bare for Bucky to pour over. 

He stands staring for too long, trying to figure out what’s happening, why there’s an incredibly beautiful painting of an older woman smiling gently for the viewer standing against a wall. It doesn’t make sense, in this situation. There are two other uncovered paintings, both leaning against an easel that has a sheet over it. There’s the Brooklyn skyline, and the other is of this house but...not. It’s tidy, clearly loved. It’s what it used to be. 

Apparently Steve loses his patience, because Bucky feels cool metal press to the back of his head. He freezes, can’t even flinch, because that’s a fucking  _ gun  _ against his  _ head.  _ He swallows and moves without Steve having to tell him to. He walks over to the bed, resolutely not looking at the paintings. 

“Lay down,” Steve demands. 

With the gun out, Bucky can do nothing but comply. He kneels on the bed first and shimmies down, his bound hands making it difficult. Steve stands over him, the gun pointed level at his head still, and Bucky takes a slow, shuddering breath. He feels so powerless, in this position, laid out on a bed while Steve stands watching. 

“Spread your legs,” Steve says coldly. 

_ “What?”  _ Bucky chokes, his heart giving a sickening lurch in his chest. Had he read this all wrong? He’d thought Steve wasn’t gonna do that, wasn’t  _ interested,  _ but oh, God, anything but that. And he’d even more sickened with himself for the way he’d reacted to Steve on his knees and he’s ready to fucking  _ beg,  _ damn his pride straight to Hell if it means Steve won’t—

“Not like  _ that _ ,” Steve sighs, his face twisting into a sour frown. “I won’t— _ no,  _ Bucky. I won’t. I’m just gonna tie your ankles to the bedposts,” he explains, looking sick himself. 

Bucky lets out a breath, his heart jackrabbiting. “You can hardly blame me,” he croaks, the words shaky and not providing the brave tone he’d been going for. He’s shaken. 

Steve sighs again and moves to the base of the bed, the gun not wavering from Bucky’s head. “I guess. But I  _ won’t,  _ okay?” he says, before tucking the gun away and beginning to tie one of Bucky’s ankles up.

“Oh, you won’t do  _ that _ , that’s so horrible, but you’ll kidnap me, drug me, beat me, tie me up...all against my will? All of that stuff is okay?” Bucky challenges. 

Steve moves onto the other leg before Bucky can even begin to think about kicking him in the head. He curses himself inwardly; but it’s not like he won’t have another chance. “Shut up, Bucky,” Steve says, voice flat. 

Bucky shuts up, but he wants to scream and cry. None of this is fair, and Steve’s acting like it  _ is.  _ And he... Fuck. He’s got nothing to lose, does he? He’s going to die here, most likely. He’s not going to die without speaking his mind. It’s all he’s got. He takes a steadying breath as Steve moves from his ankle up to the ropes at his wrists. Looks like they’re getting tied to bedposts, too.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Bucky says quietly. He chances a look at Steve’s face, but it betrays no emotion. Steve doesn’t say a thing, working on untying Bucky’s wrists. Bucky swallows and goes on. “You’re doing some of the exact same things to me that you’re killing people for, Steve. You’re no longer true to yourself. Be the change you want to see in the world, and all that.” It’s all said in a whisper that grows weaker as Steve’s face slowly gets angrier and angrier. 

Steve isn’t gentle when he ties Bucky’s first wrist to the bedpost above him. Bucky spares a thought for how uncomfortable it’s gonna be to lay spread-eagle all night, but then his eyes land on the gun that's practically  _ in his face  _ at Steve’s hip. He has one free hand. Steve’s busy tying the other. 

He moves before he really thinks it through, moves before he can even consider the consequences if he fails. He grabs the gun and has it pointed at Steve’s head before he can do anything but taste freedom like sunshine on his tongue. 

And he hesitates. 

It’s all the time Steve needs to knock the gun from his hand and land a punch square in the centre of Bucky’s face. Bucky  _ hears  _ the crunch before he feels it, and then he’s choking on his own blood, sputtering and spitting, unable to sit up. His head spins, the abuse it’s already received today piling up and making him feel sick again, vomit climbing up his throat. 

And he thinks;  _ this is it. _ If Steve doesn’t kill him he’s gonna asphyxiate on either his blood or his sick. 

But then Steve is rolling him, climbing onto the bed behind him and propping up one shoulder, forcing him to breathe. And he does; the blood drips onto the bed instead of down his throat and he sucks in a startled breath, nearly choking on that, too. He shudders through the next few breaths, his face absolutely throbbing, his eyes shut to avoid watching the black spots swim in his vision. 

He’s back to hating Steve with a passion; the man is a thorn-like presence behind him, setting him on edge, making him unable to calm down and breathe properly. And he’s saving his life just as he was about to end it. Bucky’s sick of it. He’s tired. He wants Steve to make up his mind; does he want Bucky dead, or does he want him alive?     

And then—and then Steve’s rubbing soothing circles at Bucky’s upper back, right between his shoulder blades, and Bucky wants to sob and cry and throw him off but he’s in shock and all he can do is focus on breathing. His nose is still pouring with blood, and he’s pretty sure Steve’s broken it. He’s also fairly certain he has a concussion. He kinda hopes he does; maybe he just won’t wake up tomorrow. 

“You done?” Steve murmurs behind him. 

Bucky shivers at the voice right in his hear, the hot breath that sweeps over his cheek.  _ God,  _ he wants to hate him so bad, wants that ugly loathing to be permanent, but it’s not. It’s really not. The feeling, so red-hot and disgusting, is already fading. It leaves behind exhausted resignation. He opens his eyes to test how badly his head is spinning.

“F-fuck you,” Bucky chokes out, uncaring of the consequences. 

Steve sighs, and his hands disappear from Bucky’s body. Bucky slumps, relieved, as Steve is replaced with a pillow. Steve climbs back over him and picks up the gun, tucking it back into its holster and locking it there this time. He glares at Bucky, but there’s something in his eye that makes Bucky glare back. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Steve says, the cloud that sweeps over his face is indecisive and confused, like he’s rethinking everything that’s happening. 

Bucky just closes his eyes again and wonders how people can survive years of this. He listens to Steve retreating, but he returns quick enough, coming right up to the edge of the bed. Bucky squints at him, watches him kneel beside his head and bring a cloth to Bucky’s face. Steve cleans the blood, both crusted and fresh, from his skin and gently prods at his nose, making Bucky hiss. 

“Just leave me be, would you?” Bucky asks, despair and hopelessness in his heart. “Tie me up and leave me to die. It’s better than the alternative.” His voice sounds just as dead as he already feels. 

Steve makes a small noise, but Bucky doesn’t dare read into it. “The alternative?” Steve prompts quietly, like he’s afraid to know the answer. 

Bucky wants to laugh, but he’s just. Incapable. “Being stuck here with you,” he explains blankly. 

Steve’s quiet again, still wiping gently at Bucky’s face. When he’s done, there’s the wet sound of the cloth hitting the hardwood floor. “Your nose is broken,” he tells Bucky, his voice almost  _ shaking.  _ Bucky nearly opens his eyes, because  _ what?  _ Is Steve seriously feeling bad about this? “And I’m pretty sure you have a concussion,” Steve goes on. 

“Okay,” Bucky says. He’d figured that all already. Why does Steve care, anyway? He’s the one who did it. 

“What if there was a third option?” Steve asks, but it’s so quiet Bucky has to strain to hear it. He’s not sure he hears right, anyways, and he’s  _ so tired  _ that he just lets it slide. What third option could there possibly be? 

He can feel dizzy sleep drawing closer, and he beckons it, welcoming it. He slips under to the sound of Steve’s breathing, and his last thought is  _ I hope I don’t wake up.  _

_ * _


	2. And Maybe That's Because My Mind is Sick and Demented

**Part Two; And Maybe That’s Because My Mind Is Sick And Demented**

__ \- Welcome To The Hell Zone, Bobby Raps & Corbin _ _

 

 

_ * _

Steve leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. Bucky lays sleeping, pillow propped up under his head and a blanket thrown over top of him. If it weren’t for the bruises littering his face, Steve would think it a normal situation. But the bruises make Steve remember how he caused them, and then he remembers the ropes that tie Bucky to the bed, and then he remembers that Bucky is here because Steve kidnapped him. 

_ What if there was a third option?  _

Steve thinks it over, thinks about what he’d meant. Bucky had been too out of it to reply, but Steve had been serious. What if he just...lets Bucky go, instead of keeping him here? It would mean the end of Steve’s career, the end of his purpose, but everything Bucky had said had hit Steve so hard he wonders if he’s ended it already. 

_ You’re doing some of the exact same things to me that you’re killing people for, Steve. You’re no longer true to yourself. _

Steve grits his teeth, Bucky’s words ringing in his ears. He thinks about Bucky reaching for the gun, lightning quick, thinks about him leveling the barrel at his head, finger grazing over the trigger. The safety had been on, but the  _ intent... _ The moment Bucky had hesitated, Steve had lost it. He’d hit Bucky so hard his hand still aches, and each time he clenches that fist he forces himself to hear the crunch of bone that’d been Bucky’s nose. 

_ F-fuck you. _

Bucky was no longer afraid of him. It hadn’t taken him long, but Steve wasn’t exactly a pro at keeping people scared; he had his reputation, and the weapon in his hand, but that was it. And by then, that person was usually already dead. Keeping Bucky alive was doomed from the start. And now, watching him sleep, Steve wonders if he’ll ever come back from this. 

Steve sighs and checks his watch; it’s been just over three and a half hours since Bucky fell asleep. With a knock— _ a punch, Rogers, you punched him in the face for defending himself— _ to the head like that, Steve was resolute in his decision to keep an eye on Bucky, to wake him every four or so hours to make sure he was still alive. 

Alive. The shaky plan Steve had had about keeping Bucky here, keeping him until who knows what, has already fallen apart. He can’t do this. He can’t hold someone against their will. What Bucky had said was exactly right, nail-on-the-head.  _ You’re a hypocrite.  _ Steve had become what he hated so much that he  _ killed _ because of it. 

He looks at the painting of his mother on the far wall. She’d done her best to raise him, done her best to get him medication he needed, to teach him kindness and fairness. She’d told him the troubles of the world, taught him that tings weren’t fair but things were  _ changing,  _ and he could never lose hope. What would she think of all this?

He looks back at Bucky, wonders what his mother would think of Bucky. She’d like him, he thinks. Bucky’s remained strong throughout. He’s called Steve on his bullshit, pushed for answers even when the penalty was violence. Yeah. His mother would like Bucky. She’d probably side with him. 

A lump in his throat, Steve makes his decision.

He’s going to let Bucky go. He’ll take him the hour and a half drive to the nearest town and he’ll drop Bucky there. He’ll knock him out with chloroform again so Bucky won’t have a clue how much time they spend driving, and he’ll leave him by a payphone with some coins. He doesn’t care if Bucky gives his name to the authorities, describes his face to them, tells his story to them. He can no longer justify making Bucky’s life Hell just to protect himself. 

He pushes off the doorframe and walks quietly over to Bucky, crouching down by his head. He places a gentle hand on Bucky’s propped up shoulder and shakes him carefully. “Bucky,” he murmurs. “Wake up.”

At first, Bucky doesn’t stir, and Steve panics, thinking that Bucky’s  _ not  _ gonna wake up. But he’s still breathing, a steady rise and fall of his chest, and then his eyes are blinking and Bucky’s staring blearily through Steve. He takes a moment to focus, his eyebrows creasing adorably, and then he’s wincing away from Steve. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Steve tells him, though Bucky has no reason to believe him. “I’m just making sure you’re not dead.” 

Bucky groans, flexing his arms like he wants to roll over, and Steve cringes, glancing at the ropes, then back down at Bucky’s face. Bucky’s eyes have slipped shut again and he’s frowning deeper, lines of pain written all over his face. “How long?” he croaks, voice so rough and quiet Steve has to strain to hear it. 

“Three and a half hours,” he tells him, wondering if Bucky even knows how long he’s been with Steve for. Probably not; he would have no idea how long Steve kept him knocked out for, no idea how far they drove or even where they are. 

Bucky groaning brings Steve back into focus and he sighs. Bucky’s eyes have fallen shut again and he’s tugging half-heartedly at the ropes like he wants to roll over. Steve sits back, watches him give up on moving and slip quickly back to sleep. Steve presses his lips together and studies Bucky’s face in the dim light. 

He’s a beautiful man, Steve observes. He’d seen it in the motel, but hadn’t had time to focus on that. Now, he sits and he watches the man he’s kidnapped sleep, and he feels something uncomfortable turn over in his stomach. Maybe it’s the fact that the strong morals he’s had for the past three years of killing are being questioned. 

He doesn’t doubt that what he’s doing is the right thing to do, but the fact that he’d stepped off that path even for a moment makes him double-guess it all. He watches Bucky, watches him sleep, and wonders if anything he’s told him has rang true for him. Steve wonders if anything he’s said to Bucky about the life he leads, about  _ why  _ he kills those people, has actually been considered. 

A little thrill goes through him at the thought of being understood. 

It passes quickly. Bucky had been ready to  _ kill him.  _ Steve’s kidnapped him, done horrible things to him. Things that are so far from right it’s laughable, him trying to call himself a paragon of truth and justice. Bucky wouldn’t have listened to a thing Steve said; all Bucky knows is that he’s trapped here by Steve and that doesn’t make a good premise for calm conversation and consideration of others opinions. 

With a frustrated huff, Steve stands up again and stalks out of the room. He needs a goddamn cigarette. 

*

Bucky wakes up to dim light straining to shine through a grimey window somewhere above his head and his brain splitting open. He can’t even whimper; any sound, and movement sends a concrete block smashing against his skull, or a thick wire slicing the space behind his eyes to pieces. His whole head is in sharp agony, and his face is swollen and everything is just, in general,  _ shit.  _

He doesn’t try to open his eyes again after the first attempt, because that resulted in nausea jumping on the hell train that is his body right now, and he really doesn’t want to throw up in this position. He’s honestly really sick of waking up with his hands tied, his head in a metaphorical vice, and his stomach attempting to dispel it’s precious contents. 

He wants to yell for Steve, tell him to get his ass in here and untie him, wants to spit insults in his face just to see him turn red and unleash that terrifying rage that seems to boil under his skin. He wants to drive Steve to the edge, wants to egg him on until he either kills Bucky on purpose or beats him hard enough that he doesn’t wake up. But he literally cannot fathom letting out even a peep of noise. 

So he lays there, wishing he had that fucking blindfold on because his eyelids aren’t doing a good enough job at keeping the brain-searingly painful light out. His limbs ache, too, from the position they’ve been in all night. The skin under the rope is raw from where he’d unconsciously tried to move. 

He vaguely remembers being woken up periodically throughout the night, but even the events that led to Steve’s violence are blurry. What had they been arguing about? He hopes it’d been worth it. If Steve had lost control like that it probably had been. He wonders how long he’s going to lay here, because he’s sure as hell not in any position to alert Steve that he’s awake, and to be quite honest? He’d not sure he even wants the man to untie him. 

Let Bucky lay here till he rots. Fuck it. 

As the time passes Bucky uses it to ponder what Steve had said to argue his murders. He genuinely thinks that what he’s doing is okay. And...well. Now that Bucky has a moment alone and a vaguely clear head to sort through the less-that-civil discussion they’d had, Bucky wonders if he’s really as against it all as he originally thought. 

Steve is killing the people that Bucky himself hates; rapists, homophobes, sexist pigs, etc. He’s been in more than enough situations where he’d seen victims suffering some asshole verbally abusing them because of who they are. Hell,  _ Bucky’s  _ been that person, had insults like  _ faggot,  _ and  _ fairy,  _ and  _ cocksucker  _ thrown his way. He’s been angry enough to throw punches, to spit in the perpetrator’s faces and proclaim them less than human. 

But he’s never been angry enough to issue a death-threat. Has he? No, no, he hasn’t. Steve has, and that’s what set them apart; Bucky was a sane human being, Steve was absolutely  _ not  _ sane. Insane. Unhealthy in the head. There were other ways to fight back against the injustices of the world and  _ sure,  _ okay, things move slowly or take several steps backwards when some asshole absolute  _ shithead  _ dumbass of a guy makes POTUS, but that doesn’t justify killing to drag the fight a few steps in the right direction. 

Right? 

Bucky sighs, and then inwardly curses himself to hell and back at the reminder that he is in agony.  _ Idiot,  _ he hisses at himself, and tries not thinking for a while. It’s doing his damn head in. He’s honestly considering if killing the President would help the world’s situation right now, and good  _ God,  _ he’s leaning towards yes. That’s not healthy. He’s been kidnapped. He’s not thinking straight. He just needs to get out of here, not think about if what Steve’s doing it right or not. 

What Steve’s doing is  _ wrong,  _ and that’s that. No doubt. And now that’s settled, Bucky just needs to figure out what the hell he’s going to do when Steve unties him from the fucking bed.  _ If  _ he does. 

He’s not waiting long, stewing in his own pain-addled thoughts, when he hears footsteps that sound like honest-to-God  _ elephants _ and he knows that Steve’s in the room. Neither of them say anything, and maybe Steve thinks he’s asleep which would be nice, because that means he might leave him alone for a little while longer. 

No such luck. The elephants come closer and Bucky fights the urge to sigh. He’s learnt that lesson. “Bucky?” Steve murmurs far too close to him, and Bucky screws up his face and  _ ow _ that hurts. He’s like one big bruise. 

“Fuck off,” he says weakly, and he sounds like a mouse, his voice  _ squeaks _ and it’s like ice driving through his ears and he’s wincing, cringing away like he can escape the pain pounding in his head. He doesn’t dare open his eyes. 

Steve sighs, and Bucky hates him all the more for the ability to do that without wanting to cry. “I’m glad you’re awake. It was touch and go, for a while,” he says, and all Bucky wants is for him to go away. 

“Inconvenient for you that I woke up, huh,” he whispers, near delirious at this point. He doesn’t give a shit about what he’s saying. 

Steve sighs again and Bucky wants nothing more than to hit him. “Not really,” Steve says quietly, and Bucky hears his knees crack as he crouches, and the bed beside his head dips a little. 

Bucky wants to lean away, but he can’t move much at all save turning his head to the side. He doesn’t reply, instead deciding on silent treatment. He has a thousand things he wants to say, but none of them are useful and 98% of them are insults. He’s not so far gone that he’s gonna waste breath on riling Steve up to hit him again. 

“Are you gonna do anything stupid if I untie you?” Steve asks, and his breath washes over Bucky’s face as he speaks. It’s minty, and  _ God,  _ what Bucky wouldn’t give to brush his teeth. His mouth tastes like death, and it’s all he can focus on for a moment before he forces himself to process what Steve’s said. 

“I am in no position to even open my eyes, asshole, so do whatever the hell you want,” he croaks, and whoops, okay, so he has less of a filter than he thought. The insult slips out and he absolutely doesn’t berate himself for it. Right away, anyways.

Steve’s silent for a moment, and that fear Bucky knows so well by now comes trickling in. Maybe he should have just gone with staying quiet? God, he doesn’t know if he can actually handle more violence, despite talking himself up to it. He thinks now that if Steve hits him again he’ll actually break. 

Steve clears his throat and he’s moving, and Bucky can’t help the flinch that seems to be his only response to anything Steve does. Steve pauses, and tension hangs thick in the air, but nothing happens except for the rope loosening around Bucky’s wrist. As soon as it’s untied, Bucky lets out a breath of relief, almost moaning at the feeling, before his shoulder cramps as he moves it and he’s cringing, and then he’s wincing at the pain of his screwed-up face and  _ everything fucking hurts.  _

He whimpers, he can’t help it, and he moves his arm slowly, trying to push away the pain. Steve’s untying his other wrist but Bucky can barely feel it because the blood is rushing back into his free hand and it’s like pins-and-needles but  _ so much worse.  _ He tucks his arm in close to his side, wishing he could curl around it, but his legs are still tied and he hates this all so much. 

Once his other hand is free he goes through the process all again, and he can’t stop the little pained noises that slip out. He hates himself for it, and all this moving it setting off the splitting pain in his head again, which makes it hard to even think. He clutches at his arms, trying to massage painless feeling back into them. 

He sucks a breath in through his teeth when he feels the skin around his wrists. He cracks open squinting eyes and—holy fuck,  _ ow _ , and he’s closing his eyes again very quickly but it was enough. Enough to see that his wrists are a mess of mottled purple-blue bruises and raw flesh, dried and crusted blood topping it all off. 

God, this sucks. 

He can feel Steve untying his ankles, and for the first time he thinks that he actually, truly  _ cannot  _ attempt to hurt the man, to break free and run. He thinks that if he stood up all that would happen is him throwing up, falling over and passing the fuck out. So he just lays there as his numb legs get untied and wishes that he’d at least died during the night. Fucking useless concussion. 

“I’ll get you some painkillers,” Steve murmurs when he’s done, and Bucky wants to spit at him, but the mere tantalising  _ thought _ of having something to ease this agony makes him want to beg. 

So he stays quiet as Steve leaves the room—leaves Bucky laying on the bed untied but fully restrained by his own broken body. Even with the blanket of pain that is currently crushing him, Bucky manages to curl into a ball. It doesn’t make any part of him physically feel better, but mentally it eases some of the turmoil. His aching arms come up to clutch at his head and he winces as the raw wounds at his wrists brush the sheets he’s laying on. 

He’s got a real blanket over him, he realises suddenly. He hadn’t noticed before, but Steve must have put it on his during the night. It makes him want to cry, because everything about that is confusing; Steve was the cause of every single bit of pain Bucky was in, but he’s also made sure Bucky was warm while he slept. 

Bucky realises then and there that he is emotionally fucked. His whole thought process is messed up and he’s compromised. He can no longer trust his own damn mind. He has spent the last who knows how many hours of the morning and last night trying to convince himself that everything Steve was doing was utterly evil, and not ten minutes before he was thinking that the murders were actually maybe doing some good.

What had Steve said? Immediate action. Well. Bucky can’t exactly deny that. 

He groans, and Steve chooses that moment to return. At least Bucky can’t follow that messed up thought process while he’s too busy focusing on Steve’s every move. He chances squinting open one eye, but immediately curses himself and has to spend the next few seconds breathing evenly through his nose not to throw up. The surge of pain had been worse than the original bout. 

“Bucky, you’re gonna need to sit up to take these,” Steve says, his voice blessedly low. 

Bucky can’t even fathom that statement. On one hand he wants the painkillers like there’s no tomorrow, but on the other he thinks that if he sits up he will literally  _ die _ . “No,” he slurs, ready to actually beg. “I’ll die.” 

Steve sighs, but it sounds more exasperated than angry, so Bucky figures he’s not going to get hit. “You won’t,” Steve tells him. “But if you wanna stay in pain, fine.” 

Bucky  _ whines _ , but he cuts the noise off before it drags on too long and tells himself that he can count that as a win. He moves, very slightly, and has to pause to catch his breath because  _ Jesus Christ.  _ Once his whole being has stopped spiralling into a void of searing agony, he tucks his legs under himself and pushes up with his arms. 

And oh, oh, Hell on fucking Earth. He chokes out a garbled curse, shaking all over, and waits for his body to adjust to the new position and tries very hard not to focus on the fact that his head is about to fucking  _ explode.  _ He’s breathing hard, and he must look so ridiculously weak that Steve’s probably considering putting him out of his misery. 

Eventually, he’s able to lift his head and lean back against the wall the bed’s pushed against. Without opening his eyes, he holds out a shaky hand and feels Steve press a couple of pills there. Bucky closes his hand around them and hesitates, head spinning, and he feels foggy as hell but clear enough to consider that these pills could  _ anything.  _

So he squints open his eyes and fights past the nauseating light sensitivity to look at the pills. They’re white and round, and they don’t  _ look  _ like they’ll kill him, but honestly? Even as he glares at them he realises he just doesn’t give a shit. 

“Here,” Steve says, and Bucky flinches; he’d almost forgotten he was there. 

Steve’s holding out a glass of water and Bucky nearly starts crying because  _ oh, God, water.  _ He takes it with his other just as shaky hand and closes his eyes as he pops the pills in his mouth and swallows them down with blessedly cool water. He drinks the rest of the glass and immediately rests the cool glass against his forehead, letting out a soft, relieved sigh at the feeling. 

“Do you want some breakfast?” Steve asks, and Bucky wants to throw the glass at him but he thinks that if he moved he’d just collapse in a pile of abused limbs. 

He settles for frowning in Steve’s direction. “No,” he whispers. The thought of food has his stomach turning again. He can’t fathom the idea of eating right now. 

A pregnant pause. “You should probably eat something,” Steve says eventually. 

Bucky scowls against the glass, turning it over to the side unwarmed by his forehead. “Why, so you can keep me alive to torture me some more?” he rasps, wanting to open his eyes to glare at Steve. He’d just have to wait till the painkillers kicked in. 

Steve sighs. “Something like that,” is all he says, which isn’t ominous at all. 

When it becomes apparent that Bucky is done talking, Steve stands up and Bucky listens to him walking away. He considers dragging himself up, fighting through the pain and escaping, but what good would that do? He’d probably pass out at the wheel of Steve’s car, or crash into a tree, or get stuck, and that’s  _ if _ the keys were in the car which they’re most likely not because Steve’s not stupid. 

Bucky breathes out a discouraged sigh and stays the fuck where he is. He’s trapped and he knows it. Steve knows it. Steve is so sure of it he’s left him unattended and untied in this damn room. Bucky groans and slumps against the wall, trying to focus on literally anything else. 

Eventually, blessedly, the painkillers start to kick in. It’s just a trickle of relief at first, but he moans at it, setting the glass down somewhere on the bed and basking in the feeling of the vice releasing his head. He opens his eyes carefully, wincing still, but able to keep them open. He takes proper stock of the room first, notes that he’s definitely alone, then looks down at himself. 

He’s gross. He is  _ so  _ gross. He stinks, and he’s overly bedraggled, and there’s blood everywhere. He doesn’t want to know what his face looks like. He wonders if he’d even recognise himself. If he looks anything like how he feels, probably not. 

He trails his fingers gently over the mess of his wrists and winces at the sting. He’ll have scars, he realises. Around his wrists. Anyone who looks at them will be able to figure out what they were from. For some reason, it really hits him hard. Even  _ if _ he gets out, even if he is able to escape or if someone rescues him, he’ll never be free. He’ll still have physical marks from this fucked up experience, and he’ll have the memories.

He lets out an unsteady breath and closes his eyes again. He doesn’t want to look at the blood anymore. He’s had more than enough of it. 

As the painkillers really set in, his thought process becomes clearer. He has got to get the fuck out of here. He  _ cannot  _ live like this, waiting to see if Steve will hit him because of an off-hand comment or not. Waiting to see what will make Steve angry and what will have him amused. Bucky’s very life is in Steve’s hands and that’s just  _ shit.  _ Bucky cannot and  _ will not  _ live like this. 

As he’s thinking of ways to trick Steve into taking him with him the next time he goes out, the man himself walks back into the room with what looks like a bowl of canned soup. Bucky wrinkles his nose. He’s  _ really  _ not hungry; even the smell of the food is making the colour drain from his face. 

“You should eat,” Steve says, like Bucky doesn’t have a choice in the matter, and sits down on the edge of the bed beside him. 

Bucky narrows his eyes. “I said I don’t wanna,” he croaks, and clears his throat, frustrated. 

“Yeah, but you _ should, _ ” Steve insists, offering the soup to him.

Bucky glares at it. “If I eat that, I will literally throw up,” he growls. When Steve just raises an eyebrow, Bucky sighs and elaborates. “D’you remember bashing my face in last night?” he asks, his word choice making Steve cringe.  _ Good.  _ “Yeah, well, I’m still feeling a little  _ peaky _ from all that, and just smelling food is making me nauseous, so...”

Steve sighs, like this is some great inconvenience, and sets the soup on the bedside table. Bucky follows it with his glare. “Well, eat it when you feel up to it. I’ll get you some more water,” Steve says, making to stand up.

Bucky doesn’t quite lunge for him, but a hand shoots out like he’s gonna grab Steve’s arm. Steve pauses, looking at the outstretched hand in disbelief, eyes lingering on the wounds. Bucky brings his hand back to himself, cradling it like he was burned. “Sorry, I just—” he pauses, takes a breath. “Why? Why are you getting me food, getting me water? Painkillers?” 

Steve frowns like it’s a stupid question. “Otherwise you’d starve,” he says slowly, like Bucky’s gone dumb. 

And, well, if Bucky’s lost a little bit of IQ it’s certainly not  _ his  _ fault. “Yeah, but it’s—it’s like you’re being  _ nice,”  _ he goes on, wondering why he’s bringing this up. Would he prefer the alternative? 

Steve snorts, like he’s read Bucky’s mind. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought I was evil after what I’ve done to you, Bucky,” he answers, which isn’t an answer at all, and then he’s standing up and walking out of the room, taking Bucky’s water glass with him. 

Bucky purses his lips and scowls. 

*

Steve takes a moment in the kitchen to steady himself with some deep breaths. He  _ knows _ what he’s doing to Bucky is by no means humane or good, but having Bucky ask him why he was giving him basic human rights shakes him to the core. So much so that’s he’s reaching for the fresh pack of cigarettes and lighting one right then and there. 

He inhales to the point of a tickle in the back of his throat and holds, letting the nicotine spin through him. When he exhales, his hands are shaking a little less. He takes another absent drag as he moves over to the sink to fill up Bucky’s water, shaking his head as he goes. 

It’s mid-morning. Steve had planned to drop Bucky off under the cover of darkness, leave him by a payphone to fend for himself, but now he doesn’t know if he can even wait that long. Once Bucky’s got some food in him and he can stand, he’ll take him to the outskirts of the nearest town. Let him walk in by himself. There will be people around he can get help from. 

Chloroform isn’t really an option, in that case, so Steve will have to settle for blindfolding him and taking the long route to town; a three hour drive instead of the hour and a half. He won’t give him any sense of direction, and the back roads are rarely used, so that should throw of anyone who comes sniffing. 

He’s counting on Bucky relaying everything he knows to the police. He’s not stupid, and Steve hasn’t knocked him around  _ that _ much; he’ll be able to give the authorities some very useful information. Steve had spent most of last night going over his options; running had been near the top of the list. 

But he can’t. This place, this house...it’s all he’s got left of his previous life. Of a life with a family. Of a life with some mirage of peace. Of a life with  _ love _ in it. And it’s almost funny; his Ma had died here in this house. So had his Dad, before he was born. And when he was,  _ he _ had nearly died here. His life has been coloured with death. 

So he won’t run. He’ll happily die in this house; he’s done his part to make the world a better place. Sure, he prefers if he doesn’t die soon, prefers that he gets more chances to fight for what he believes in, but at least he’ll die in confidence that he’s done good. 

Jail is a very real possibility, too. He doubts they’ll put him away over putting him down, but who knows? He won’t go to jail. If that’s the sentence he gets, it’ll be for life. That’s not something he’s willing to do, or to live. 

So he’ll stay. If they take him, he’ll die, either at their hand or his own. If they don’t find him, then he continues as he is with a clear conscious; he’s let Bucky go. He’ll make up for it, sure, find some way to pay his penance for what he’s done to him, but he’ll be happy with the knowledge that Bucky’s free and Steve’s working to build a better world for him to live in. 

With that settled, Steve stubs out what’s left of his cigarette in the sink and walks out of the kitchen again, Bucky’s water in hand. In the spare room, Steve finds Bucky exactly as he left him, which is a surprise. He’s leaning up on the wall the beds pushed against, grimacing at his wrists. 

And—okay. Steve’s not proud of those marks, nor is he proud of the bruises that litter Bucky’s swollen face. He hates himself for it, even, and with Bucky’s added food for thought about Steve being a hypocrite…

Steve shakes himself, determined not to go down that route right now. He’s already been over it several times this morning. The guilt will continue to eat away with him, but for now, he just needs to get Bucky up and out of his house. 

“You eat anything yet?” he asks Bucky, and he watches with a blank face as Bucky jumps, attention flying to where Steve’s hovering in the doorway. 

Bucky scrunches up his nose and immediately hisses, wincing at the pain. As soon as he can smooth out his face, clearing it of pain, he replies. “No, still trying not to vomit, to be honest,” he says, dry as a bone, and Steve fights the urge to express his empathy. It’s not like Bucky would want it, anyways. Nor would he believe it. 

“Well, have some more water,” Steve tells him, walking over to hold it out for him to take. 

Bucky does, albeit with a shaky hand, and pulls the glass back to himself quick, like Steve will take it from him if he hesitates. And Steve can’t help the way his eyes linger on the welts at Bucky’s wrist, can’t help the way his focus flickers up to really take in Bucky’s face. He’s a mess. Steve did that. 

As if he can read Steve’s mind, Bucky snorts and looks down, hair falling in his face as he sips at his water. “You got a shower in this place?” he asks once he’s had a few mouthfuls. The words are hesitant, like he’d been deliberating over asking for a while. 

And, yeah, Steve can see why. Bucky’s  _ filthy _ , covered in blood and grime and sweat. He must be feeling worse than he looks. Steve moves away from the bed, leaning up against the wall. “Yeah. You want one? The fires been going all morning; the wetback will have heated up by now,” he offers.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I mean, yeah,” he says, then narrows his eyes, distrust sparking in the depths. “Why would you let me, though?” 

“Because you stink,” Steve says bluntly. It’s easier than saying  _ because I’m going to set you free in a couple of hours, and you probably shouldn’t look like that when I drop you off.  _ Or maybe he should? People would be more likely to help him, then. But then they’d help him  _ quicker,  _ and more attention would be drawn, and no, Bucky should definitely shower. 

Bucky just watches him, suspicious, then gives a short nod. “Okay. Cool.” 

Steve nods back, and pushes off the wall. At least he’ll be able to test to see if Bucky can walk on his own. “C’mon then,” he says, already walking out of the room to get a towel. 

He also manages to turn the shower on to warm up before Bucky’s even get out of the room. Steve returns to the hallway in time to see him holding onto the doorframe, face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. Steve grimaces and makes to help him, but Bucky flinches so hard he nearly loses his balance and slides down the wall. 

As it is, he has to take a moment with his eyes closed, clearly fighting off some agony pounding in his head, and Steve watches him take deep, slow breaths. “You gonna pass out in my shower?” he asks him.

“You gonna beat me if I do?” Bucky bites back, but it’s weak, even though he manages to look Steve in the eye as he says it. 

Steve rolls his eyes and turns away. “There’s a towel on the rack. Hurry up, the tank isn’t that big.” And he walks back to the kitchen, shoulders tight at the feeling of Bucky watching him go. There had been something calculating in Bucky’s gaze, and Steve doesn’t like that one bit. 

It was like Bucky was figuring him out, thinking things through twenty times at all different angles. There was something unnerving about being analyzed, as if Steve was  _ nervous _ at what Bucky would find. Which—no, he wasn’t, because that would mean he cared about what Bucky thought about him. About his work. And he didn’t; no one had  _ ever  _ understood what Steve was trying to do, and he didn’t need anyone to. 

And yet, just that morning, he’d been thinking about how nice it would be to have someone who did. 

He shakes it off, returns to the kitchen while keeping alert, straining to listen for Bucky’s footsteps. They weren’t hard to hear; he was practically sliding along the wall with the effort to stay upright. Steve doubted he’d be able to stay standing in the shower. 

Busying his mind with thinking about what to eat for lunch, Steve stocked up the fire and put some water on to boil. He’s reaching up to search through the cupboards when he hears a muffled grunt and a curse. The back of his neck prickles as he spins around and immediately stalks towards the bathroom, his heart thudding unevenly. What had Bucky done now? He probably shouldn’t have left him alone; of course he’s gone and hurt himself. 

“Bucky?” he calls, poking his head around through the open door. 

And—oh. The room is already filled with steam, but he can see Bucky clearly. He’s got his shirt off, but he’s crumpled on the floor and breathing hard. Steve spares a brief moment to catalogue the array of mottled bruises that cover his torso, but then he’s moving before he can really think about it. He comes to kneel in front of Bucky, hands fluttering around him like he can find the thing that hurt him and crush it. 

He nearly pauses at the strong feeling that rips through him; the urge to protect. He squashes it before it can be fully examined and focuses on what’s important right now. “Bucky?” he prompts when all Bucky does is give a low whine and curl in on himself further. “Is it your head? What’s going on?” Steve demands, panic making his voice come out angry. 

Bucky winces and shakes his head. “No—” he croaks, and looks up through his eyelashes. “No, I’m fine, I just...blacked out for a moment,” he manages. 

Steve frowns, unimpressed. He really shouldn’t have left Bucky alone. He moves closer, an arm coming to loop around Bucky’s back. When he flinches  _ hard,  _ Steve sighs. “I’m just gonna help you up,” he explains, shuffling around to do just that. 

Bucky’s tense, and his breathing picked up again. He’s so afraid of Steve it makes his heart hurt. But he can’t deny that it’s fully warranted. Despite the shaking of his shoulders as Steve tightens his grip on him, beginning to lift him up, Bucky lets him. He’s clearly trying to calm his breathing; taking long, slow breaths even as his body clearly wants him to gasp for air; his whole being is terrified. 

“That’s it,” Steve encourages, a far cry from his furious demands to  _ get up  _ that he’d given after knocking Bucky down several times yesterday. He wonders if it’s confusing for Bucky, that Steve’s way of handling him has changed so much. 

Bucky grunts, weakly trying to help Steve help him, and pushes up, leaning heavily on Steve. As soon as they’re half way up—going slow, mindful of the fact that Bucky had just  _ passed out _ —Bucky seems to hesitate, like he needs a moment to adjust. Steve’s willing to give it to him and glances down at his face to tell him to take all the time he needs and— 

And then,  _ pain.  _ Steve gasps, the inhale turning into a sharp, choked growl of disbelief at the feeling of a knife plunging into him, glancing off his ribs and sliding deeper. He jerks away from Bucky, hand flying to the handle, eyes wide with surprise as he takes in the pooling blood, and then he’s looking up to turn that confusion on Bucky only—only Bucky’s  _ moving.  _

He’s  _ running _ , and he’s out of the bathroom before Steve’s brain can catch up on what’s just happened. He grunts, heartbeat picking up and blood surging as that all too familiar boiling rage bubbles up in his throat. Adrenaline kicks in and he’s straightening up, ignoring the knife in his side as best he can, sparing a brief thought for how in the fuck Bucky had gotten a hold of it. 

He uses the wall to steady himself as he bolts down the hallway. Bucky’s not gotten far; he’s fumbling with the deadbolt on the front door. Steve reaches him just as Bucky realises that he’s failed, that he is not going to escape. Steve slams a hand on the door either side of him, trapping him against it. 

Bucky drops to the ground immediately, lashing out and taking Steve's legs from under him. Steve curses, and  _ howls  _ when he hits the floor, the movement jarring the knife in his side. He’s fucking  _ beyond _ reason at this point, just plain fury and the uncontrollable need to hurt Bucky back. He doesn’t think; he lunges for Bucky just as he’s trying the scramble out of the way, and gets his hair in one fist. 

His other hand manages to close around one of Bucky’s injured wrists and he squeezes  _ hard.  _ Bucky screams, the sound tapering off into a whimper, and tries to wrench himself away. He’s cursing, he’s yelling at Steve, telling him to go to hell, telling him that he’d rather  _ die  _ that stay here, telling him that Steve is worse than the people he’s killing, asking him why he hasn’t killed him yet. 

Steve snarls, forcing Bucky’s head back, tugging at his hair until his eyes water. Bucky’s still kicking, and one foot catches Steve in the side, and he wheezes, but his grip only tightens. “Fucking—how  _ dare  _ you,” he hisses, and Bucky punches blindly with his free hand. Steve jerks his head back just in time and twists his body so he’s on top of Bucky, pinning him to the ground. The movement has Bucky’s head knocking against the floor, so hard Steve can hear the  _ thunk. _ Steve’s hand falls from his hair to trap his other wrist, and Bucky yelps, baring his teeth, but his eyes are off, like he can’t really see.

Bucky’s still spitting insults, writhing, and his hips come up and the twist to the side in a move that throws Steve off. Steve hits the ground with a grunt, surprised, and Bucky tears himself from his hold. Bucky’s hauling himself up off the ground as Steve rolls, about to do the same, but then Bucky sways and he’s catching himself on the wall, eyes staring unseeing at Steve, face bone-white with fear. 

Steve leans on the other wall, watches as Bucky tries to regain his balance, watches as the energy slips from him and he’s left cringing, sliding to the floor. Steve guesses his weak condition and spinning headache has caught up with him. The extra knock to the head probably brought it all back. 

“Are you  _ done?”  _ Steve demands, a hand unconsciously pressing at the sluggishly bleeding knife wound he’s still got in his side. The pain is really starting to set in now, and it’s  _ searing.  _ Steve’s never been stabbed before. It fucking  _ sucks.  _

Bucky just spits, and the saliva lands at Steve’s feet. He’s breathing hard, and he looks like he’s going to vomit, and his eyes are still not fixed on anything. For a moment, Steve worries that he’s gone and done some permanent damage, but then Bucky’s gaze clears and he scowls at Steve, pressing pale lips together in defiance. 

“Fuck you,” he says, and the words are so quiet that Steve barely hears anything but a whisper, but he watches those lips form the words. 

Steve scoffs and tears his own shirt off, carefully pressing it to the wound. “No, fuck  _ you,”  _ he retorts, tone impossibly dark. He’s still so  _ angry,  _ but he’s been angrier than this. His head is clearing. He  _ gets  _ it, he does, he just wishes he’d not been fucking  _ stabbed.  _

Bucky wheezes out a bitter laugh and bangs his head back against the wall, like he’s  _ trying  _ to injure his already abused brain already, and immediately groans. “Gonna kill me now?” he croaks, and his tone implies that he’s  _ counting  _ on it. 

“No,” Steve says, deadly serious, and pushes off the wall. “But I ain’t leaving you awake,” he adds. Bucky can just go find help covered in the shit he’s got all over him. Fuck it. 

He stalks away before Bucky can reply, all of his focus trained on Bucky, but he doesn’t move. Steve walks awkwardly, the knife sending unbelievable shots of pain through him. He finds the chloroform easily enough, and soaks a rag in it. Returning to the hallway, he wonders suddenly if he’ll need it; Bucky isn’t moving. 

But as he gets closer, Bucky’s head lifts just enough to glare at Steve, and his eyes fall to the rag and widen, and then he’s shaking his head. “Oh, fucking— _ please  _ don’t,” he actually  _ begs,  _ and Steve wants to laugh. 

“You asked for it,” Steve tells him. 

Bucky immediately looks furious. “I did  _ not.  _ I was trying to escape, like any sane person would if they were fucking  _ kidnapped  _ by some maniac who thinks he’s doing the world a  _ favor _ by killing people,” he spits. 

Steve glares at him. So much for any hopes of Bucky understanding. “Where’d you get the knife from?” he asks in lieu of responding to any of that. 

Bucky huffs, hanging his head again. He’s got one hand holding him up and the other around his middle. His knees are drawn up like he feels vulnerable without a shirt. He looks like a mess. Steve can hardly believe he’s hurt Bucky so much in such a short space of time. The knowledge actually has him feeling  _ sick.  _

“It was in the bedside table,” Bucky admits, and Steve stares at him in disbelief, then gives a short laugh. 

Of course it was. “Alright. Noted. I’m bad at kidnapping people,” Steve murmurs, and moves into Bucky’s space quick as lightning. 

He must take Bucky by surprise, despite standing right in front of him, because he gets the soaked rag pressed against Bucky’s face before he can fight back. It works quicker this time, probably because Bucky had been on the verge of passing out anyway, and Bucky barely manages to push at Steve’s arm before he’s slumping to the side, eyes rolling in his head. 

Steve catches him, hissing at the pain it sends through him, and lowers him to the ground. His head has been abused enough. 

Once he’s sure Bucky is out, Steve straightens up and goes to deal with his fucking  _ knife wound.  _ When he’s got that sorted, he’s going to load Bucky up in the car and dump in town. He’s fucking  _ done.  _

*

Bucky’s getting overly sick of waking up in this much pain. He’s lost count of how many times he been through this, but he knows that waking up from the chloroform is the worst out of everything. It’s the same thing; blinding, splitting headache and light sensitivity, but it’s all wrapped up a nice bow of  _ he has no idea how much time has passed.  _

It fucks with his mind. 

This time though, he gathers his bearing a little quicker. He figures out he’s in the back of Steve’s car fairly quick, and does better at concealing the fact that he’s awake. As soon as he’s coherent enough to focus on what he’s hearing he realises that they’re on a gravel road, so he must not have been out  _ too  _ long. 

As soon as he’s learnt all he can with his eyes closed and his mouth shut, the dread creeps up on him and paralyses him. He’s fucked up. He’s fucked up  _ so bad.  _ He hadn’t been  _ planning  _ to stab Steve, but then Steve had left him alone and he’d looked in the drawer out of curiosity and there had been a fucking  _ knife.  _

God, he hadn’t thought it through. He hadn’t thought about it at all, not in the slightest. He’d simply picked up the knife and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Steve hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary; why would he have? And honestly, if not for the surge of purpose coupled with tentative adrenaline, Bucky probably wouldn’t have had the energy to do it, or to fight back. 

The passing out had been a farce. Mostly. The heat of the bathroom had made his head spin, and he’d used it to his advantage, playing on the hunch he’d had that Steve had changed his tune. That he suddenly, for some wild reason, gave a shit about Bucky’s well being. 

And Steve had come like a fucking dog on a leash. Bucky hadn’t even thought about it, he’d played his shaky part until Steve was close enough. Bucky’d had him eating out of his goddamn  _ hand.  _ And then he’d stabbed him. The knife was sharp; it’d sunk right through flesh. He’d felt it knock into bones, felt it slide deeper. 

He hadn’t had time to think about it. If he’d thought it through,  _ really  _ thought about it, he would have left the knife in the fucking drawer. As it were, he’d done it, no matter how stupid it was, and now he was in the back of Steve’s car headed  _ who knows  _ where. 

And—Bucky’s stabbed someone. He’s stabbed Steve. He’s driven a knife into a human’s flesh and he’s pretty sure he still has Steve’s blood on his hands. His stomach gives a sickening lurch as his bashed up brain helpfully relays the scene for him. He’d done that. God—he’s  _ capable  _ of that. If he can stab someone without a second fucking thought, what the hell else was he capable of? 

If Bucky’d hit something important, like an organ or something, what would he have done? And—thing is, he knows exactly what he would have done. He’d’ve left Steve to bleed out on the bathroom floor, he’d’ve left the shower running, and he’d’ve run. If Steve hadn’t chased him, Bucky would have found the keys to the damn car and he’d’ve legged it out of there. 

Steve could have  _ died _ , and Bucky would’ve driven away. 

He shudders, cold with the realisation. Driven to it or not, Bucky realises that he is capable of murder. Murder; the very thing he’s been so against, the very thing he’s been berating Steve for, the  _ very thing _ that Steve does and revolves his life around and  _ the very fucking same thing  _ that Bucky had been using to set them apart. Steve commits murder. Bucky doesn’t. 

And now? Bucky’s coming to terms with the fact that he, James Buchanan  _ fucking  _ Barnes, is capable of murder. 

Oh, God. 

“Bucky?”

Bucky flinches, his eyes flying open. He’s breathing hard, he realises. His chest is fucking  _ heaving.  _ He’s full on panicking, and yet, at the same time, there’s a sick,  _ sick  _ part of him that’s saying;  _ of course you’re okay with murder. Hadn’t you been thinking that what Steve’s doing might actually be okay? Hadn’t you been thinking that, huh? What if you’re just as fucked up as he is?  _

Bucky desperately forces the voice from his mind, tells it to shut it’s fucking mouth, and tries to focus on calming his breathing. Lights are already popping in his vision, black spots swimming into sight, and he really doesn’t want to pass out again. He’s had enough of being unconscious. 

“Bucky, do we have to go through this again? I know you’re awake,” Steve says, and oh God, Bucky wants to wrap his hands around his throat and throttle him till his neck is black and blue. 

Oh, he is so fucked. “Fuck off,” Bucky shoots his way, voice breaking before he can even attempt to put any emotion into the words. 

Steve snorts. “That really all you got to say, huh? I knocked your head around so much that all you remember?” 

Bucky wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but that would be proving his point. “Would you be so surprised?” is what he says instead. His voice is raw; probably from the screaming. 

“Not really,” Steve replies, and his tone is bland. It makes Bucky angry; he’s just  _ stabbed  _ this man, can’t he show a little emotion? Show something to make it worth it?

“How’s your side?” Bucky asks as nonchalantly as he can. It still comes out a little taunting. 

Even as he’s talking, he sits up a little in the backseat, wincing as he goes. He manages to catch Steve’s stormy look in the rearview mirror before his face is smoothing out again. “Sore,” Steve admits, eyes flickering to meet Bucky’s. “You taunting me, Buck?” he asks, and the question sounds so innocent. 

Bucky knows exactly the threat it’s layered with. “You gonna kill me if I am?” he bites back. Honestly, at this point, he’d probably thank Steve. He feels like he’s losing his fucking mind. 

“No, but you should know that by now. When is that question gonna get old, huh?” Steve says, breezy as can be, his eyes refocusing on the road. 

Bucky shakes his head, closing his eyes again now that Steve’s not looking at him; like he’s been released from their intensity. “Fuck off,” he says weakly. Steve knows that it’s all he’s got, if the laugh he responds with is anything to go by. 

Silence consumes the car. Bucky listens to nothing but tyres crunching on gravel. He uses the time passing to take stock of his tired and sore body. He takes note that he’s wearing a shirt—he definitely hadn’t been wearing one when he’d attacked Steve. He aches. Other than the pain that is just fucking  _ everywhere,  _ he feels kind of okay. Less woozy than last time. More in control. 

But maybe that’s just because he’s gotten used to everything.

He’s trapped thinking about the fact that he’d been prepared to kill Steve until another question starts burning in his mind and on his tongue. He doesn’t let himself say it out loud until the gravel turns into tarseal and the not knowing becomes too much. 

He drags his eyes from the blurry trees they’re now speeding past, and asks; “where are we going?” Even to his ears, the words sound a little wobbly. No matter how many times Steve tells him he’s not gonna kill him, he can’t believe him. He’s too unpredictable. 

Steve blinks, glancing at Bucky in the rearview, like he’d forgotten he was there. “It’s a surprise,” is all he says. 

Dread swirls in Bucky’s stomach. “Oh?” he squeaks. “Because that’s not ominous  _ at all,  _ coming from a serial killer,” he says in a hurry, like he’s trying to cover up the embarrassing high-pitched noise. 

Steve laughs, a low, rough noise, and looks back at the road. “I’m not telling you. You’ll see when we get there,” he tells him, which sheds absolutely no light on the situation. “Not long now,” he adds, which only has Bucky’s heart rate climbing higher. 

Now long till  _ what?  _ But he knows better than to keep asking. He knows how volatile Steve is, knows what happens when Bucky pushes him. He’s only been kidnapped by him for—what? God, he doesn’t even know. He still doesn’t know how long the initial car ride had been, how long it’d taken them to get to Steve’s house. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been under  _ this  _ time around. 

But he knows that Steve’s like a damn grenade. And Bucky’s sick of being caught in the explosion, at this point. So he keeps his mouth shut and returns to staring out the window. It’s just trees; literally no driveways, no sideroads, no signs. Nothing. He aches to see some kind of civilisation; anything that can convince him Steve’s not driving them to Bucky’s grave. 

There’s nothing for a little while more. But suddenly—there’s an intersection. Bucky perks up as Steve stops at the sign, takes careful note as he turns right. It’s not much to go off. It’s not like he has any idea where they are in the first place, or if there have been any turns they’ve taken while he was passed out. But it gives him a sense of purpose, like he has some kind of hope. 

He can fool himself, okay? He’s got nothing else. 

They drive for a while more, and Bucky counts the few turns they make, but most of it is just straight forward. There aren’t even any corners in the road; like the way has just been carved out in the middle of the woods. Maybe they’re not even on Earth anymore. Maybe they’re just driving in circles and Bucky can’t tell because he’s been knocked over the head too many times. Maybe this is all he’s gonna do for the rest of his miserable life; lay in the back seat of his kidnapper’s car feeling sick. 

He sighs, and manages a weak glare as Steve glances at him in the rearview mirror. Steve rolls his eyes and looks at the road again, appearing indifferent. Bucky rolls his eyes back, even though Steve can’t see it, and looks out the window. And—oh. He sits up a little straighter when he sees the first letterbox, renewed hope thrumming through him. 

The letterboxes become frequent after that, and then after another twenty minutes, he sees his first car. It’s headlights are on in the hazy evening light, and it speeds past. Bucky wants to  _ scream,  _ he’s so relieved. He’d genuinely thought he’d gone insane and he would never see any other humans ever again. 

He realises they’re driving into a small town when the road widens ever so slightly and Steve slows down, a scowl appearing on his face. Bucky’s too busy looking around to linger on the expression for too long, and he finds himself pressed against one of the windows, staring desperately through the glass, looking for  _ anyone.  _ All he needs is one person to look at him and realise that he’s in trouble to be  _ free.  _

And then he thinks; why would Steve bring him here and have him awake as he does? Has he got a death wish? What’s happening? 

“Steve?” he asks, suddenly unsure. Is the town filled with people like Steve? Is this a serial killer town?

Steve’s breaking slowly, pulling over to the side of the road. Bucky feels frozen, but his hands are on the door handle. Steve clears his throat and twists in his seat to look at him. His face is unreadable; completely blank. “Off you go,” he says. 

Bucky stares at him. “What?” he asks, the word echoing in his own ears like it’s come from far away. 

Steve narrows his eyes, and that now familiar thud of dread makes itself apparent in Bucky’s gut. “I’m letting you go. You talked yourself out of it,” Steve says, and even his  _ voice  _ reveals nothing. 

Bucky swallows against a dry throat and doesn’t dare tear his gaze from Steve. “Is this some kind of sick test?” he demands, and his fingers are clenched tight around the handle, now, his entire being begging him to open the door and  _ run.  _

“No,” Steve sighs, like he’s just absolutely bored to death of the whole ordeal.

A muscle jumps in his jaw and Bucky doesn’t miss it. “I stabbed you,” he says slowly. 

Steve just stares at him. Something tells Bucky that he’s silently judging him. Taking an unsteady breath, nervous sweat trickling down his spine, Bucky opens the door. It swings open, but he doesn’t look away from Steve. Steve doesn’t break the eye contact, either. 

Bucky places one foot out on the pavement. The car’s still idling, and even though Steve’s staring directly at him, he could drive away at any moment. But he doesn’t move, and Bucky’s brain is torn between distrust and the things he’s learned while being kept by Steve, and the ache for freedom that sings between his ribs, screaming at him to  _ go go go.  _ He shifts in the seat, holds Steve’s gaze for a moment longer. 

And then he’s running. 

He doesn’t bother to slam the door shut behind him, only focused on the fact that he’s  _ running,  _ he’s  _ free.  _ He bolts down the street, the humid wind in his hair feeling like every craving he’s ever had fulfilled. His bare feet slap on the pavement, and he has to avoid some glass, but he’s  _ free,  _ and he can’t hear anyone giving chase, he can’t hear Steve’s car coming after him, and he’s in a town and there must be someone here and—  

And he slams into someone as he flies around the corner. 

He quite literally bounces back, shock and all the number of things wrong with him leaving him lightheaded, and he’s falling, he’s going to hit the ground but  _ oh God  _ that’s another  _ person,  _ he’s free and he’s never going back and—and the person grabs his arm and stops him from falling, and his hysterical brain just thinks  _ this must be a fucking angel.  _

He grunts, the grip the person has on his arm rough as he’s hauled back to his feet. He doesn’t spare a thought for the pain that screams through him; he’s more than used to it by now. The fresh bruises will just blend in with the rest. 

He’s gasping for breath, and he looks up at his hero, eyes wide and a  _ thank you  _ on the tip of his tongue, closely followed by a  _ please help me,  _ but then he gets a good look at the beady eyes and the raised eyebrow and a lick of fear goes through him, and he shuts his mouth, confused. Why is he afraid of someone who’s going to help him?

“Aw, are you alright, doll? Who’s done that to ya pretty face, huh?” the man drawls, and he’s leering, he’s not let go of Bucky’s arm, and his breath  _ stinks,  _ like tobacco and stale beer. 

Bucky steadies himself, leaning away as much as he can, and realises that he has just run straight back into trouble. Despair wells up in him, clogging his throat, but he swallows it back down. He’s just got  _ free,  _ he’s not going back, he can’t—

“Cat got your tongue, doll?” the man greases, oil-slick, and leans in like he’s getting a better look at him. “Gonna tell me what’s wrong? I’ll help ya out, don’t worry, baby doll,” and he’s  _ slurring _ , and oh,  _ God.   _

Bucky shakes his head, giving an experimental tug with his arm, trying to free himself yet again. “Uh, can you let go of my arm?” he asks, and his voice shakes, dammit, and he stares at the man’s glazed eyes and realises that this guy is drunk as all hell, but he’s  _ strong,  _ and Bucky hasn’t eaten shit all in days, and he’s so  _ tired,  _ and he just wants to lie down and cry. 

“Hm, I don’t think so, darling,” the man  _ purrs,  _ but it sounds like he’s got something stuck in his throat and Bucky fights down the nausea and pulls at his arm again with a bit more force, taking a step back and daring to glance around to see if there’s someone;  _ anyone.  _

But it’s fucking dusk and the sun’s nearly set and this must be a fucking ghost town or something and—and, no. No. He’s not going through this again. Weakness be damned, he is  _ not doing this again.  _

“Let go of my fucking arm, asshole,” he spits, and  _ yanks  _ it out of the man’s grip. 

He surprised that he gets it free and he goes stumbling back, and for  _ fuck sake,  _ he lands on his ass on the pavement, only just biting back a yelp at the pain that shoots up his spine. He’s scrambling to his feet before the man can do something terrible while he’s on the ground, and he glares at him, a hand out to stop him. 

The man narrows his eyes and bares his yellow teeth. “Aw, I’m just playin’, doll, Aren’t ya gonna be nice? I’ll make sure you’re safe, I’ll make sure you’re all okay, baby,” he says, stepping all up in Bucky’s face, and Bucky wants to spit at him. 

But he’s walking a dangerous line here, and while breaking into a run is at the forefront of his mind, this guy looks  _ fit,  _ and if Bucky runs? He’s going straight back to Steve. But then again, right now? That sounds a lot better than the alternative. And he can’t fucking  _ believe  _ he’s thinking this, but he almost wishes he was still in that goddamn  _ fucking  _ car. 

“Listen, I’m fine, I don’t need—” but Bucky doesn’t get his protests out, can’t try and talk his way out of this, because the man is moving even closer till he’s pressed up against Bucky, getting his arms around him, and Bucky doesn’t hold shit back, he fucking  _ screams _ .

The sound echoes off the buildings around them, and his throat it scraped raw from the sound, but he screams. He goddamn screams his head off, but then the man is pulling him, and he’s fighting against his hold, he’s kicking and hitting and thrashing but he is  _ so weak.  _ He should have eaten that soup. 

The man gets a disgusting hand over Bucky’s mouth and his other tree trunk of an arm is so tight around Bucky’s waist his ribs ache with it. “Shut  _ up,”  _ the man hisses, and spittle flies over Bucky’s face, but he just shuts his eyes and keeps screaming against his hand. 

He’s still fighting, he won’t go down easy, but the man is dragging him now, dragging him backwards into an alley and  _ oh, God.  _ Bucky’s scream cuts off into a terrified whimper before he puts all his energy into trying to get free. He gets a few good hits in, manages to jab the man in the eyes, but then the man is yelling at  _ him.  _ No words, just rage, and the hand lifts from Bucky’s mouth to clobber him around the head. 

Bucky goes limp for only a moment, stars swirling in his vision, but it’s apparently enough. 

The man gets him on the ground in the second Bucky takes to recover, and those fucking disgusting hands are tugging at his clothes, and Bucky wants to vomit but he needs to  _ fight.  _ He’s panicking but he can’t panic, not right now, he needs every bit of his focus on making this  _ not happen.  _

He drives his hips back up into the man, who’s got a knee on either side of his thighs, and twists. It’s the same move he used on Steve, and it works just as effectively even though he’s on his front. The man falls back, but he’s quick, grabbing for Bucky again as Bucky kicks back, throwing his body against the alley wall. 

The man’s hands are on him again, trapping him, but Bucky’s gritting his teeth to hold in the scream as his left hand lands on broken glass. It digs into him, and  _ fuck,  _ it hurts, but then the man is trying to worm his way into Bucky’s pants and Bucky doesn’t think he just—  

He just—  

Here’s the thing. Bucky doesn’t think. He’s  _ terrified,  _ but he’s just so angry, and he’s in so much pain, and he honestly thinks that living with Steve for the rest of his decidedly now miserable life is better than  _ this.  _ It’s like boiling fucking  _ rage _ that has been simmering, no,  _ roaring _ in his gut for so long just  _ explodes.  _ It feels like being set free, his chest being ripped open, everything he’s feeling just  _ spills over  _ and bleeds all over the fucking disgusting alley ground and he just—

He just drives the shard of glass he’s got his bleeding hand around into the side of the man’s neck.

It feels like slow motion. The man’s eyes go wide, and he sputters out something that could be  _ what the fuck?  _ Then the man’s hands are lifted from Bucky’s body and touch at the glass sticking out of his jugular and he looks so confused, like he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Then he rocks back, falls away from Bucky and fear takes over his expression, and he’s gurgling out  _ no no no no no.  _

No? 

Bucky watches the man’s lifeblood spill out over the alley. 

He watches his would-be rapist die, and he feels nothing but a sense of purpose, like he’s made a real difference. He’s saved his own life, he’s saved his own  _ ass,  _ and this man will never get the chance to rape anyone ever again.

Watching the life drain from the man’s face, Bucky feels nothing but satisfaction, the feeling of change, the feeling of...direct action. He swallows against a dry throat, any and all pain very far away, like it’s been shut behind a glass door to be seen only if he wishes. He stares at the dead man and he gets the sudden urge for a cigarette. 

Bucky sits there against the alley wall, cradling his bleeding hand, the hand that has killed a man, and he  _ laughs. _

*

Steve takes a moment in the car, letting it idle and letting himself process as Bucky bolts down the street. He watches him go, just as he’s been watching him this entire time. There’s something in his chest, something that resembles regret. It’s like an ache, like an uncomfortable rock that sits heavy right beside his heart. 

He doesn’t let himself linger on it too long. He’s made his decision. 

Bucky doesn’t look back; he just keeps running, and then he disappears around a corner and he’s  _ gone.  _ Steve’s breath hitches and he brings up a hand to rub at that knot in his chest and shakes his head. There. Done. It’s  _ done.  _ Bucky’s gone and he’s not coming back and Steve—Steve is alone again. 

He shudders and shuts his eyes for a moment, hands squeezing that wheel so tight he shakes. He’s never claimed himself sane, he’s never claimed himself normal, but he’s sure it’s  _ very  _ outside of the norm to feel like  _ this  _ after watching the person he kidnapped run away from him without a word. 

Bucky hadn’t even believed him at first, but as soon as he’d  _ tasted  _ that freedom, he’d been gone like there was nothing else in this world that could have persuaded him to stay. And, okay. That makes  _ sense.  _ Bucky is a sane, normal person who’s been through some  _ horrible  _ trauma. Trauma Steve inflicted on him. Of course Bucky ran. Of course he did!

Steve understands this, plain as day. So why does he feel like this? 

He shakes his head and releases the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath and centres himself, tells himself to let it go. He has work to plan, places to be, a life to live. With a shaky resolve, he puts the car into gear and pulls a u-turn. If he drives slowly, who’s around to see him lingering on the street, foolishly and delusionally hoping Bucky will run back around that corner again. 

He drives past the last closed store just as the sun dips below the horizon, and winds his window down when he starts feeling like he can’t breathe. He hadn’t noticed it, before, the hole in his chest. The lonely ache. He hadn’t noticed that he was missing  _ anything,  _ thought that his life had been complete, thought that all he had was his purpose and that was  _ enough.  _

But apparently he was wrong. 

Just as he starts speeding up, a faint scream echoes from behind him. He can barely hear it over the engine and the wind, and maybe he’s more insane than he thought, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he’s pretty sure that was Bucky. It makes him sick, briefly, to realise that it’s because of him, because of his violence that he knows Bucky’s scream so well. 

Did he imagine it? 

He’s slowing down the car before he can think about it, stopping in the middle of the deserted road. His heart’s thudding in his chest, and he strains his ears but he can’t hear anything. But  _ something  _ feels so, so wrong. 

And God help him, he turns the car around with that roaring rage flaring up in his veins because if someone is hurting Bucky…

He grits his teeth together and drives straight back to where he’d stopped to let Bucky out and he turns the damn car off and gets out without realising he’s done any of it. He’s not shaking anymore, he’s deathly still. He feels every bit the predator that he is as he tucks his gun into it’s holster and shuts the door. 

He stalks down the street, quickening his pace. If he’s imagined it, if he’s truly lost his mind, he doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s chasing him. He’s let Bucky go, damn it, and he’s sticking with that decision. But if he’s  _ right,  _ if he  _ did  _ hear that scream, there is nothing in this world that will hold him back from slaughtering the reason for Bucky’s fear. 

He turns the corner that Bucky disappeared around and pauses as though he’s scenting the air. Maybe it’s something in his heart, maybe it’s intuition, or maybe it’s every bad movie that involves alleyways and a bad time, but he makes a beeline for the alley. There is dread in his throat sitting snug beside the fury, and he is  _ scared,  _ absolutely  _ terrified  _ of what he’s going to find. 

When he gets there, all he can do is stand and stare. 

At first he thinks Bucky’s dead. He’s slumped against the alley wall, and there’s blood all over him, and his eyes are shut. Then Steve catches movement; the rise and fall of his chest. Relief crashes over Steve, drowning him for a moment, and he cannot tear his eyes from him. He drinks his fill, stares at Bucky, watches him breathing until he can feel himself thawing again. 

Then his attention slides to the man at Bucky’s feet. 

He’s dead. Steve has seen many,  _ many _ dead people, and he knows this guy is dead. At first, Steve’s confused, but then understanding comes to him, sugar-sweet. He feels his mouth drop open, and something pools in his gut that is too much like delight. Awe mixes with it, too, and he takes a step forwards once his legs have unfrozen. 

Bucky looks up. 

His eyes goes wide, and his breathing kicks up a notch, but he doesn’t move. Steve stares back at him, hovering at the mouth of the alley, waiting for a sign or  _ something  _ to tell him what to do here. He’s at a loss; he’s let Bucky go, and Bucky  _ ran,  _ but all he wants to do right now is go to him, pick him up and run his hands over his body to feel if he’s  _ okay.  _

“Steve?” Bucky croaks, and Steve is nearly driven to his knees at the sound. 

“Bucky,” he says, surprised that his voice his steady. He swallows, watching, waiting. Bucky’s calling the shots here. 

And he laughs. Bucky laughs, just a soft chuckle, and looks away. He looks at the dead man, and he laughs again. “Steve, I killed a man,” he says, and his  _ voice— _ Steve knows what’s in that voice. He knows it, because his own words echoed with what Bucky’s feeling right now after  _ his  _ first kill. They  _ rang  _ with it. 

“You did,” Steve says slowly, taking another step forwards. 

Bucky doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even  _ look  _ at Steve, he just keeps looking at the man’s body. He’s  _ smiling,  _ Steve realises, and something soars in his chest, something like hope. He nearly chokes on it when he realises, and he walks real slow over to Bucky and crouches down. He doesn’t look at the man, just watches Bucky’s face. Waits. 

“He was gonna rape me,” Bucky says, and his voice is full of wonder. He’s still smiling, and the words are soft, almost  _ affectionate.  _

The rage flares up again, but Steve squashes it down as quick as it came. Bucky’s already done what needed to be done. He’s  _ cleansed  _ the world of this man, of that evil. Steve clenches his jaw and lets himself feel the wave of awe. “You did,” he says, the appreciation lacing both words. 

Bucky finally looks at him, that same smile on his face. Steve’s hit with the realisation that he’s never seen Bucky smile before, or at least not like  _ this _ . It takes his breath away, and he’s reminded of how pretty Bucky looked in the motel room. How he’d  _ appreciated  _ him. Steve’s breath catches in his throat, and Bucky tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. 

“I wanna do it again,” Bucky murmurs, almost like he’s coming to terms with the realisation. 

Steve nearly chokes on air, but he calms himself, takes a moment. When he can feel his heartbeat slowing back down to a more normal rate, he speaks. “Does it feel like an addiction you don’t wanna quit?” he asks, holding his breath for the answer. 

And Bucky just nods, nice and slow. His smile turns crooked and he closes his eyes. “I think you knocked my head around a bit much, Steve,” he breathes, and Steve is struck with the sudden urge to kiss him. 

He doesn’t, but he does offer a hand for Bucky to see when he opens his eyes. Bucky looks down at the upturned palm, and then back up at Steve. Steve shrugs. “I’ve got a hit that’ll keep the cravings at bay, if you wanna go down that route,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. Bucky looks up at him with eyes clearer than Steve’s ever seen them. “Or, you can say no, and I’ll get you to rehab,” he offers, despite the possessive ache to grab Bucky and run. 

Bucky just shakes his head. “I don’t know if there’s a rehab for this kinda thing,” is all he says, and he takes Steve’s hand. 

Steve closes his fingers around Bucky’s hand and pauses for a second, searching Bucky’s gaze, before he’s helping him up. Bucky comes easy, that damn smile never fading, and Steve finds himself grinning. Maybe he  _ did  _ knock Bucky’s head around too much, but he’s  _ grinning,  _ and Bucky’s looking at him like he wants nothing more than to put a bullet in someone’s skull while holding Steve’s hand and Steve—  

Steve aches to feel this forever, whatever  _ this  _ is. 

“C’mon, then,” he says, and stands up. 

Bucky stands with him on slightly shaky legs, but then he’s wrapping an arm around Steve’s waist and Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever feel any kind of empty again. He is  _ full,  _ he is fit to explode, like every corner of his body is stuffed to the brim with  _ everything.  _ He can’t describe it. He can’t even begin to comprehend it. 

So he doesn’t. He simply mimics Bucky and holds him, helps him walk out of the alley and away from the body. They don’t even look back at it. They just walk, and Steve subtly checks the street for any other signs of life, but there's no one. It’s weird, sure, but Steve is the  _ Nomad.  _ He’s never been caught before. He’s only ever been seen in the act  _ once,  _ and that’s turned out...perfect. 

Like it was meant to be. 

The smile on his face feeling more and more like it’ll be there forever, Steve helps Bucky down the street and around the corner and then into the passenger seat of the car. Bucky huffs as he sits down, clearly still smarting from his wounds, and guilt rises up in Steve’s throat as he looks over the bruises he’s put all over Bucky’s beautiful face. 

And he swallows it back down. Nothing like that will ever happen again. 

He shuts Bucky’s door for him and goes around to the drivers side. He starts the car and repeats his earlier u-turn. As he picks up speed, they both seem to let out the same breath, shoulders relaxing and bodies slumping back into their seats. They drive away from the town like they were never there. 

As they hit open road, Bucky lets out a laugh, and Steve glances over at him. Bucky’s watching  _ him  _ for once, and his smile takes Steve’s breath away even as he raises an eyebrow in question. Bucky tips his head back and Steve’s eyes flicker down to sweep over the expanse of his throat before he meets his eyes again. 

“Got a cigarette?” Bucky asks, and Steve thinks that he might be in love. 

It’s ridiculous. It’s sick, and none of this is okay, none of this is sane, none of this is healthy. But by God, it feels so  _ right.  _ Bucky had just run from Steve, Bucky had just spent  _ days  _ suffering under Steve’s hands, he’s just had a traumatic experience, but Steve looks at him and all he sees are clear eyes and a smile that makes him want to combust. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, looking back at the road. “Glovebox. Light me one?” 

Bucky gets them out. His hands don’t even linger by the phone that’s in there, and Steve’s heart jumps in his throat. Bucky lights up two cigarettes and reaches over, placing one in between Steve’s lips. Steve shudders and tries to focus on the road. 

Hazy smoke drifts through the car, billowing out the open window. Steve can’t help but steal glances at Bucky as he inhales his next drag, lips pursed around the cigarette. Bucky’s watching him right back. And Steve smiles. 

*


	3. Ain't You My Baby?

**Part Three; Ain’t You My Baby?**

__ \- NFWMB, Hozier _ _

 

 

_ * _

The man doesn’t stand a chance. The moment he steps inside the bathroom, he is as good as dead. Bucky slips in behind him, catching the door and closing it quietly. He sees the man glance at him, but the gaze doesn’t linger. Why would it? He’s just another guy going for a piss in a mall. He’s of no consequence. Not worth a second look. 

The man’s assumptions are far,  _ far  _ from correct. 

Bucky walks to the urinal, glancing around the bathroom. One of the two stalls are being used, but he knows who’s in there. He smiles to himself, gets his dick out, and relieves himself. The man’s doing the same, and he feels the back of his neck prickle with excitement. 

Thing is, this man not an hour ago had been sitting with his wife at the food court, talking a little too loudly, gesticulating a little too wildly. His wife had had her shoulders hunched, discomfort written into every line on her body, and when she turned her head the light had caught the shiner decorating her right eye. 

Thing is, that would have been enough to condemn him. Thing is, the man didn’t stop there. He’d let slip a racist slur, despite his wife being a person of colour. And she’d just sat there, her facial expression not changing. She’d looked haunted. And not one person around them had done a thing. 

Except Bucky. He’d been watching the entire time, chewing at his sandwich and sipping his drink, listening to every word and cataloging everything that put a tally against the man. And Steve had been at his side, bent over his coffee with an ankle hooked around a leg of Bucky’s chair. One would think he was ignoring the spectacle, but Bucky had read the smile on his face. 

They hadn’t spoken a word about it. 

And now they’re here. They don’t know the man’s name; they don’t need to. He’s a dead man walking. Well, pissing. Bucky tucks his dick away first and steps away, towards the sink. The occupied stall swings open, and Bucky watches Steve in the mirror. Bucky can’t help his slow smile; there is heat curling in low in his gut that is a mix of desire, delight, and the itch of an addiction about to be satisfied. 

He watches Steve in the mirror as the man at the urinal moves over to the sink and starts washing his hands. 

There’s a glint of silver at Steve’s side, and then the knife is pressed against the back of the man’s neck and Bucky’s eyes lock with his and Steve’s victim. There’s no time for him to scream; the man is dead before his expression can finish morphing into one of undignified horror. His body drops to the ground in the next second. 

Bucky lets out a breath and looks away from him to stare at Steve in the mirror. Steve’s eyes are hooded, and Bucky steps over the body to press himself up against his front. Steve meets him halfway, lips hot against Bucky’s own, and Bucky groans, getting handsy immediately. 

But they don’t have time. As quick as they embraced, they pull apart and walk out of the bathroom, Steve’s knife tucked away again. The emergency exits are easy to walk out of when no one’s looking. They narrowly avoid the sightlines of a camera and blend into the foot traffic, heading for the car parked a street away. 

The energy thrumming between them makes it hard to focus, hard to keep their hands off of each other, but somehow they manage. They make it to the car, get in as quick as can be normal, and drive at a respectable speed out of the town centre. 

They make it as far as the highway before Bucky’s laughing, the thrill of the kill bubbling up and out. “Fuck,” he breathes, and Steve’s grinning at the road, but it’s for him—it’s all for him. 

“Satisfied, sweetheart?” Steve asks, glancing over briefly. His head is resting against the seat, eyes slightly glazed and body languid, like he’s just had a hit. In a way, in  _ their  _ way, he just has. 

Bucky takes a moment to appreciate him, to take note of how his own body feels; relaxed, loose and thrumming with a new kind of energy. He hums, the sound almost like a  _ purr,  _ and tilts his head back, smiling. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “For now. The cravings’ll come back hard and fast, won’t they?” 

Steve just laughs and Bucky opens his eyes to watch his face as he does it, drinking in the sight of him. “Yeah, but don’t you worry. You know I’ve got your fix covered,” he says, voice dripping liquid honey and Bucky’s  _ bathing  _ in it. 

Bucky shifts in his seat, reaching over to place a hand on Steve’s thigh, digging his fingers in just enough to coax out that hitch in Steve’s breathing. Steve glances at him again, eyes dark, and he purses his lips, appearing disapproving. Bucky just grins at him, all teeth, and rubs small circles into his inner thigh. 

“You got us a place to stay the night?” he asks, playing nonchalant; a far cry from the mess of somersaults his stomach is doing right now. He feels so at ease, so  _ satisfied,  _ and all he wants to do now is let Steve take him apart. 

And Steve knows it, if the look on his face is anything to go by. “You know I do,” Steve says, voice dipping an octave lower, and Bucky  _ shivers.  _

“How far?” Bucky asks, all innocent even as his hand slides further up Steve’s thigh. 

And Steve’s legs fall open as if on instinct, like Bucky’s the one calling the shots here, like Bucky can take whatever he wants and Steve will just roll over and  _ obey.  _ And that’s the thing; that’s how it is now. Steve would do anything for Bucky. He’d kill for him, and he  _ has.  _ And Bucky would do the same in return. 

It’s this knowledge, it’s this certainty that has Bucky looking forward to each day. He wakes up every morning with Steve at his side and he gets to bask in the warmth of his lover, gets to watch him wake up and sometimes he’ll take him apart with his mouth, sometimes he’ll get up and make them coffee and sometimes he’ll just lay there in his arms until the morning fades into afternoon. 

And it’s only been three months since Bucky killed his first person. Since he got  _ hooked.  _ Since he became the Nomad’s sidekick and walked like death’s shadow with their victims to the scene of what would be their end. And it’s only been three months since Bucky gave into that voice inside his head, the one that told him what Steve was talking about made  _ sense,  _ that what he was doing was  _ right.  _

It’s like being free. 

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice brings him back to the present, the warning tone ringing in Bucky’s ears. 

All innocent, Bucky leans over enough to slide his hand over Steve’s crotch, his eyes never leaving Steve’s face. And Steve’s  _ flushed;  _ he’s an easy blusher, even when he’s not embarrassed. It doesn’t take much to get him riled up, to get him swaying on the edge and pulling him  _ down down down _ to the place where he will grab Bucky and take him to  _ pieces.  _

_ “Bucky,”  _  Steve hisses, and his knuckles are delightfully white at the steering wheel. 

Bucky makes a noise of inquiry while working at Steve’s zipper. “Yeah?” he asks. “Want me to stop?”

Thing is, he will, if that’s what Steve wants. But Steve just gives him a  _ look,  _ one full of love and disbelief and  _ heat.  _ So Bucky doesn’t stop. He gets the zipper open, nudges Steve’s thighs as far apart as they can safely go while he’s driving, and slips his hand inside Steve’s pants. Steve lets out a choked-off noise and a muscle in his jaw jumps. 

Bucky rubs his hand over Steve’s dick, sighs at the feeling of him already half-hard. Bucky pulls him out of his pants and Steve bites back a moan as Bucky gets his hand around him, thumb swiping over the head. Bucky flicks his nail against the slit and grins at the yelp that startles it’s way out from Steve’s throat. 

Steve gives him an affronted look, but his eyes are so  _ dark  _ and Bucky  _ knows  _ what he likes. Bucky raises an eyebrow, daring to throw a smirk at him. “Let me  _ hear  _ you,” he requests, voice nice and rough. He’s getting hard in his pants, too, just from being able to do this to Steve. 

Steve lets out a ragged breath and looks back at the road, the blush travelling down his neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, but he’s pushing his hips up into Bucky’s hand, and Bucky just laughs. 

“I should hope so,” he purrs, removes his hand just long enough to lick his palm before he’s focusing on jacking Steve nice and slow, working on getting him hard and leaking. 

Steve moans, holding nothing back now, his eyes goes a little wild at Bucky’s words. “Jesus— _ fuck,  _ Bucky, you’re just gonna say shit like that, huh?” he demands, voice going all breathy like it does when he’s really turned on by something. 

Bucky wriggles a little in his seat, his pants uncomfortably restricting, but he’s focusing on _ Steve  _ here. For now. “What, you think I’d ever let someone  _ else  _ be the reason for your death?” he asks, trailing fingertips down the underside of Steve’s dick now that’s he’s thick and heavy against his hand. 

Steve shoots him an incredulous look. “Fuck, no,” he rasps. “I’d rather bite your bullet than have anyone else lay a damn hand on me,” he groans, and it’s so,  _ so  _ fucked up, but what isn’t in their lives? They’re doing dirty, dirty work, however necessary, and it’s bound to mess with their minds. 

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, tucking his fingers back into Steve’s pants, the zipper digging into his skin as he rolls Steve’s balls in his hand. “Fuck, Steve, yeah. You know how I’d do it?” he asks. “You wanna hear how I’d kill you if we ever got caught?” 

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, but opens them just as fast, fixating on the road. “God, you’re everything to me,” he bites out. “Yeah, yeah, tell me.” 

Bucky chews at his bottom lip, hardly believing that this is getting him hot. He trails his fingers back up Steve’s dick until he’s gathering precome from the tip and using it to help the glide as he gets his hand back around him. Steve moans, hips canting up again. “They’d chase us, wouldn’t they,” Bucky murmurs. “So we wouldn’t have much time. We’ve got a death warrant, baby, and they ain’t letting us escape if they catch wind of us.”

Steve’s face is flaming, and his dick is such a beautiful pink. “Yeah? So what would you do, if there’s no chance of escape?” he asks, voice all wrecked and  _ God.  _

Bucky can’t help but press the heel of his free down against his straining zipper, trying to relieve some of the pressure. “I’d get us somewhere we could have a moment. That’s all I’d need; just a minute,” he breathes, letting out a whimper as he rubs his own crotch in time with the hand he’s using to jerk Steve all slow and teasing. 

“Fuck,” Steve bites out as he glances over to see what Bucky’s doing. “Fuck, you getting hot over this too? Needa get yourself off, talking ‘bout killing me when we ain’t got no choice?” 

Bucky groans, eyes fluttering shut and hand stuttering on Steve’s dick. “Ah—fuck you, I’m tellin’ a  _ story  _ here,” he protests, but he’s clumsily fighting with his own zipper, desperate to get himself free now. 

Steve makes a small noise of discontent. “Ain’t a story, sweetheart. It’s a  _ promise,” _ and his eyes are all serious when Bucky looks over, and he’s pretty sure they both regret that they’re driving, because all Bucky wants to do is get Steve’s hands all over him, to get him to that state of mind where he feels like he’s drowning. 

As it is, they can’t be too far from whatever motel Steve’s got planned, and Bucky’s still got his hand on his dick. “Yeah, baby,” he says, all throaty and heated. “Yeah, it’s a fucking promise,” he swears, and starts working his hand again. 

Steve’s head falls back with a groan, and Bucky thinks he can maybe hear both their hearts jackhammering. He gets his own dick out,  _ finally,  _ and licks his palm to help with the slide. Steve’s giving him small glances where he can spare his focus, white-hot lust written all over his face.

“So I’d get us somewhere for a minute,” Bucky goes on, squeezing the base of his own dick as heat shoots through him at Steve’s breathy little noises. “And I’d get all up in your face and I’d kiss you dumb, baby, I’d kiss you for half that fucking minute and tell you— _ God,  _ I’d tell you I loved you, baby,” he pants, jacking himself in time with Steve. 

Steve grunts, clearly steeling himself, fighting off the rising orgasm. His dick jumps in Bucky’s palm, but he just picks up the pace, the precome making it damn  _ filthy  _ and wet. “I’d fuckin’ say it right back,” Steve gasps, and Bucky lets out a low groan. 

“Yeah? Fuck, well that’s forty seconds, and I’ve got twenty to get my hand around your gun and press it against your sweet little temple, baby,” Bucky growls, his chest rising and falling with the rapidness of his breath. He’s so fucking close. 

Steve’s not far away either, if the the way he’s fraying around the edges is anything to go by. He’s moved the car over to the slow lane, trying so very hard to keep them safe, but fuck they’re dancing with death every time they leave the damn house. “We got ten seconds left, then, sweetheart. You gonna kill me?” Steve whispers, the words like gravel. 

Bucky whimpers. “Yeah, baby,” he moans. “I’d tell you I loved you one more time and I’d—” he twists his wrist, and he’s sent flying, making a mess of come all over himself, spiralling up and up until he can hardly fucking breathe and he’s seeing stars behind his eyelids but he manages; “I’d blow your fucking  _ brains _ out, baby.”

And Steve’s coming too, hunching over Bucky’s hand and his shooting dick, baring his teeth in a snarl as Bucky milks him through the orgasm. The car  _ swerves,  _ and Bucky’s floating down from heaven by now but he swears he could come again as they brush with death. Steve gets the car back in their lane without incident, horns blaring all around them, and his breathing is harsh and erratic as he sits back in his seat again, dick still twitching in Bucky’s hand. 

Bucky only removes his hand when Steve hisses, sensitive. They take a moment of silence to get their breathing back under control, and for Steve to be able to focus on anything other than keeping the car on the damn road. 

Eventually, Steve barks out a laugh that ends up being, honest to God,  _ giggling,  _ and Bucky lets out a chuckle, gingerly reaching into the glovebox to grab the tissues. He wipes his hand off, wipes his dick off and leans over to clean Steve up, before tucking them both away and settling back down, facing the road like nothing had ever happened. The smirk on his face does nothing to help his innocent act. 

He feels Steve’s eyes on him, though, and he looks up through his eyelashes, fighting a smile as he finds Steve’s expression incredulous. Bucky raises an eyebrow in question and Steve just shakes his head, looking away, but he’s smiling. 

“I knew I loved you before, Bucky, but that was—”

“Yeah,” Bucky cuts him off, knowing exactly what he’s going to say. 

Steve huffs and shakes his head again. “Yeah,” he echoes, and there’s something on his face that sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. 

Bucky watches him the entire drive to the motel, drifting down into the mental space that comes with long drives. It’s peaceful, just watching Steve drive, and Bucky’s mind drifts right off and away. He thinks about the turning points in his life; seeing Steve murder someone for the first time, getting kidnapped by him,  _ Bucky _ murdering someone for the first time and then choosing his life’s path. 

A path that is so closely intertwined with Steve’s that he can hardly breathe sometimes. 

But that’s okay, because when he surfaces for air, it’s the freshest he’s ever had. It makes everything worth it; the running, the hiding. Living in the middle of nowhere. Being the ears to Steve’s many furious rants about what’s right and what’s wrong. And honestly? He prefers it this way. He’s not entirely sure how he even went about his days before this. Had he been  _ living?  _ Or had he just been surviving? 

Whatever he was doing, it no longer matters. He’s here, he’s happy, and he’s holding Steve’s hand as they drive to one of the many motels they’ve never stopped at. They’re doing good things with their lives, and they’ll continue to do so until the day they drop dead; whether that be them with bullets in the back of their heads or from old age. 

He smiles at the thought, coming back to the present. Steve’s deep in his own head, or entirely focused on driving, but he seems to sense something in Bucky change. He glances over and raises an eyebrow, but Bucky just squeezes his hand. Steve squeezes it back, smiling warmly at him, and returns to the road. 

Yeah. Yeah, Bucky’s real happy. He could want for nothing more. At least until the cravings start up again, anyway. 

*

By the time they pull into the motel’s excuse for a parking lot, Bucky’s dozing in the passenger seat. Steve hates to rouse him; he looks so soft and peaceful. But he cuts the engine and barely has to start removing his hand from Bucky’s before Bucky’s blinking his eyes open and staring blearily around them, clearly gathering his bearings. 

It sends something warm fluttering through Steve’s chest, knowing that Bucky trusts him enough to fall asleep in the car. He’d thought that they would have a rocky start to what surely should have been a tentative relationship, but Bucky had dove right on in, taking the reins and leading them both. 

Only three months in and Steve himself feels half a step behind Bucky most of the time. It’s good, though, because then he’s not worrying so much about putting a foot wrong. Bucky himself doesn’t seem so worried; he even tolerates Steve’s rages and a lot of the time joins in. Heat curls in Steve’s gut at the memories of how many of those screaming matches end.

It’s not that they argue with each other, it’s more that they yell about the injustices of the world, the horrible things that happen, or horrible memories they themselves harbour. It hurts Steve’s heart to think about the horrors he’d put Bucky through, but Bucky’s working through it. He tells Steve to back off if he needs space, pulls him closer when all he needs is to press himself up on Steve for comfort. 

It’s good. What they have is  _ fantastic.  _ They seem to be able to read each other’s  _ minds  _ half the time, moving around each other without speaking a word and yet sharing a thousand thoughts. And that is convenient in the best ways. God, and Steve’s mind drifts right back to earlier today, of holding Bucky’s eye in the mirror as he killed that disgusting excuse for a man. 

The way they’d planned it without talking, the way Bucky had relaxed all at once when the body fell lifeless to the floor, the way Bucky had been so riled up from the kill he’d gotten Steve off not half an hour later. Steve’s mouth is practically  _ watering  _ just remembering it. 

“Mmf,” Bucky mumbles, bringing Steve back to the present. That’s another thing they’re good at being for eachother; an excuse not to get buried in one’s head. So much so that Steve often finds himself sitting beside Bucky as the man dozes in his arms on the couch and Steve just...doesn't think of anything. His mind remains empty but for the love he has for Bucky.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, unclipping their seatbelts. “We’re here. You wanna stay here, or come with me to the front desk?” he asks, voice softer than he ever knew it could be. 

Bucky frowns, just a little dip between his eyebrows, and opens his eyes to look at Steve in the dim evening light. “I'll come with you,” he decides, rubbing at his face with his right hand, clearly trying to wake himself up.

Steve just smiles at him fondly. “Okay. I'm just gonna get my wallet from the bag,” he tells him, popping the door open and heading for the boot. 

As he retrieves his wallet, Bucky manages to stumble out of the car and yawn at the sky, stretching his arms over his head. Steve watches, unable to tear his eyes from the sight. Bucky catches him looking and simply sends him and wink, shutting the door behind him and heading for the office, holding his hand out for Steve to catch up and take. 

Steve hurries to do so, and he happily swings their clasped hands between them as they walk. He feels warm, unbelievably so, and he wonders sometimes if he could ever truly be cold again with Bucky in his life. Any conclusion he's ever come to says no. 

There's a bell above the door that jingles as they walk in, and there's some shuffling in a back room before a stout man appears, hair hanging in his face and looking about as inconvenienced as someone can get. Steve drops his sunglasses to cover his eyes and walks with Bucky up to the counter. 

Bucky usually does the talking for them. He's better at it; Steve tends to get a little jumpy if someone asks the wrong question. He's not sure how he managed to get by before. All he knows now is that everything is better. 

He pulls up a polite smile as the man sits down, clicking at the computer, and readies his wallet while Bucky greets the clerk. “Could we get a single for overnight, please?” Bucky asks, his voice all charm and innocence and everything about it has heat tingling at the base of Steve's spine.

He looks away from Bucky's face in time to catch the disgusted look on the clerk’s. And—okay. The arousal fades, is replaced by a familiar rage. Steve squares his shoulders as it surges up him, blooming over his ribs and clenching in his heart. He wants to snarl like an animal, wants to invoke fear in this man immediately, but Bucky squeezes his hand and the boiling urge to kill tapers off for a moment. 

The moment is enough to let him be clear headed about this. However shitty the motel, there's a camera recording all of this and anyone could come in and find them in the middle of the act. So instead of leaping over the counter and throttling the man until the rage subsides and is replaced with euphoric satisfaction, he squeezes Bucky's hand back gratefully. 

“Oh, you two like  _ that,  _ huh?” the man asks, glaring at them with distaste. Bucky's squeezing Steve's hand so hard now it actually hurts. 

But on the surface Bucky appears calm, but everything about him screams alert; a far cry from the contented sleepiness from just a moment before. Steve rubs circles with his thumb into the top of Bucky’s hand and waits. Let Bucky deal with this for now, and they will get their chance. 

At the man’s question, Bucky just smiles; all charm, all normal. “Yes, we are. You got a problem with that?” he asks, the sweetness in his voice sticky like syrup, ready to catch an unsuspecting fly.

The man sneers. “Yeah, I do, actually. Coupla’ faggots like you got no business pushin’ what you do in your downtime into other people’s lives. Don’t wanna see it, don’t wanna hear about it. It’s disgusting,” and its  _ rich,  _ coming from him, really. The man is disgusting in every sense of the word. Steve can only be glad that he would be dead soon. 

Even with that knowledge, the man’s words have an echo of a sting, old hurts flaring back up. Bucky’s holding onto his hand like it’s a lifeline, but none of his inner turmoil shows on his face. “I’m so sorry we’ve offended your delicate sensibilities,” he says dryly, poison creeping into his tone. “But may we have a room, or do we need to go somewhere else?” 

The man looks like he’s bit into something terribly sour; his face screws up and he shakes his head as though clearing it of something he doesn’t want there. “You’ll get your room. Just don’t make me come up there with noise control, I know what your type are like,” he spits, and finishes typing on the computer with that same expression. 

Steve fights down the urge to kill the man now and make it  _ slow,  _ make it horrible. It’s not how he words; he is careful and  _ quick.  _ He must be smart about these things. He is intensely grateful for Bucky’s grip on his hand, grounding him, centering him. He takes several slow breaths through his nose and settles in to  _ wait.  _

“Well, thank you for the consideration of your other guests,” Bucky says, and it would be polite if there weren’t that poison glimmering in the slow molasses of his words. Steve wants to push him to the ground and take him apart piece by piece, but he can’t not yet, so he settles for grinding his molars together in a poor attempt at patince. Bucky is  _ good _ at this. 

The man scoffs, turning a shade darker, and scowls at his computer screen before getting up and fetching a key from the wall behind him. He gives them the cost of the room and this is where Steve steps in, handing over cash with nothing on his face but the icy promise of bad things to come. 

The man actually  _ shivers,  _ whether he realises it or not, as he hands over the key to Steve and meets his eye. This man may think he’s big and tough, spewing out vilness wherever he goes, but in the presence of a predator such as Steve he quivers like a rat. And Steve  _ revels  _ at it, practically salivating at the show of fear, even if the man fights it down, appearing confused as to  _ why  _ he’s feeling it. 

Steve steps away before things can get out of hand and returns to Bucky’s side with the key in hand. He feels calmer beside Bucky, the crimson hue of rage peeling away from his vision and helping him think straight. Bucky’s head is clearer, though, and he’s speaking before Steve can. 

“See you around,” Bucky goads the man, words rolling off his tongue like the sultry invitation they are. Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand harder, his heart giving an uneven thud, excitement welling up in his chest. 

The man turns a little green around the edges and Steve’s lips twitch up into a smile at the sight. “I don’t fuckin’ think so, cocksucker,” the man splutters, and Steve’s entire being thrums like a harp string as Bucky  _ coos.  _

“Aw, isn’t that why you asked?” Bucky questions, voice all innocent. He even tilts his head to one side and he looks so beautiful in this moment, eyes wide and confused, lips parted in an apologetic pout. “Sorry, I misread the conversation,” he goes on, dropping his tone into something that cannot be misleading. It is clear what he’s offering and Steve wants to crowd him up against a wall and kiss him senseless, grind against him till they just come in their fucking pants. 

Steve wants a lot of things in this moment. He gets exactly one of them, and that’s seeing the man’s colour morph into something that is actually slightly concerning. The man’s standing, but if he were sitting he’d be shooting to his feet with indignation. As it is, he balls up his fists like he wants to take a swing and bites out; “What the fuck made you think I would be into that kind of sick shit, faggot?” 

It hits Steve in the gut like a punch but Bucky doesn’t miss a step. “Well, you asked about us. I thought maybe you wanted a go,” he says suggestively, tilting his chin up in defiance. 

“The only thing I want a go at is using you for target practise,” the man splutters. He’s agitated, fidgeting like he’d be throwing punches right now if it weren’t for the camera. 

Steve takes a steadying breath and Bucky moves just slightly closer to him, a constant comfort at his side. “With what?” Bucky asks, and it’s like he’s going in for the kill already. Energy zaps through Steve, adrenaline spiking, and his mouth  _ waters  _ at the taste of the hunt in the air. “Your dick and my mouth?” Bucky quips, and he’s played this man like a damn fiddle. 

At first the man gapes, shocked, before he’s in motion, stepping around the desk and it’s good Steve’s stayed quiet because the man doesn’t even  _ look  _ at him, it’s like he’s not even there. But the man hits Bucky like a freight train, driving him back against the wall, right underneath the camera and out of it’s sight.

An animalistic noise rips its way out of Steve’s chest as he meets Bucky’s eyes and he’s slipping the knife from inside his jacket and pulling his signature move; blade severing the spinal cord where it meets the skull. The man drops limp and Steve catches him, not looking away from Bucky for a single second. Bucky’s breathing had picked up, just a sliver of fear in them, but it’s not of him. 

It’s never in fear of him. Never again. 

And then the fear is fading, replaced with that eerie breathlessness that comes with the afterglow of a kill. Bucky’s face slowly morphs into a grin, and the expression turns Steve’s insides out, leaving him with a fever as he stares into the depths of Bucky’s eyes. He’s still holding a dead, worthless body, but he takes a moment of breathing hard, savouring this moment and this closeness before he moves. 

He’s careful of the camera as he drags the body around a corner to shove in a cupboard that looks like it’s never used. There’s no blood to clean up; most of it got on Steve’s clothes which is preferable to the floor. He returns to the office and finds Bucky leaning against the wall still, watching and waiting, sharp eyes focused on the very real danger of someone showing up. 

It’s risky. It’s far,  _ far  _ too risky to stay where they are after this, but Steve trails his eyes over Bucky’s body with the memory of Bucky making that man  _ prey _ , and he knows they can’t move on yet. He  _ needs  _ Bucky. He needs him now. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and Bucky’s head whips around, instantly alert, every part of his attention trained on Steve. 

Steve’s body sings with the attention and he smiles, slow and feverish. Bucky’s own smile turns devilish, and he slumps against the wall, tilting his head back in a show of his neck.  _ Submitting.  _ Steve is powerless but to go to him, hands settling at his hips like they belong here. He crowds Bucky against the wall, getting a thigh between his legs and capturing his mouth. 

He plays with simply drawing honey-sweet whimpers from Bucky first, reining them both in whenever Bucky tries to deepen the kiss. Steve grazes his teeth over Bucky’s bottom lip, licks over it as Bucky shivers. Bucky’s hands are wandering, desperate, trailing over Steve’s ass and up, hiking up his shirt to trail his fingernails up the sides of his spine. Steve is helpless but to melt into him, letting out a soft groan. 

But he pulls back just enough to murmur; “We should get to our room. We don’t have much time.” And his voice is already rough, wrecked with the promise of what’s to come. 

Bucky lets out a low whine, but reluctantly removes his hands and straightens up. He already looks half taken apart and Steve almost sinks to his knees right then and there. As it is, he trails a hand down Bucky’s side and presses his palm against Bucky’s crotch; just enough pressure to feel the half-hardness he has there, to elicit that addictive, desperate gasp from him. 

“You’re not convincing me we’re taking this anywhere,” he says, all breathy, and Steve has to agree. 

He removes his hand, takes a step back despite every cell in his body protesting against the move, and avoids the view of the camera to slip into the hall. Bucky’s following close behind; Steve’s attuned to him, aware of exactly where he is without looking at him. It’s like a  _ heat _ that radiates throughout Steve whenever Bucky’s close, and an icy chill that fills him when Bucky’s far. 

They stay close, unable to be more than an arms length apart, until they’re unlocking the door to their room and Bucky practically herds Steve inside. The door shuts behind them with a barely audible click and then Bucky’s  _ on  _ him, hands everywhere, driving him back onto the bed. Steve groans, pliant under his touch, until he’s on his back against the blankets and Bucky’s got his mouth at his neck, all teeth, no mercy. 

And Steve ruts up into his hips, breathing ragged, and near  _ growls _ before he’s gripping Bucky tight and flipping them over, caging him in with his thighs on the bed. Bucky lays back against the covers, hair falling around his head like a halo, gazing up at Steve with the Devil’s smile and a demonic glint in his eyes. Steve shivers. 

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he praises, sitting back on Bucky’s hips, trapping him against the bed and letting his hands roam the expanse of Bucky’s torso, deftly unbuttoning his shirt. 

Bucky’s mouth falls open, eyes glazing over and he  _ preens.  _ “Yeah? You liked watching me, huh?” he asks, all teasing. 

Steve grins, getting Bucky’s shirt off him, helping him out of it before pushing him back down into the bed, rocking his hips as he gets his hands on him. Bucky groans, eyelids fluttering as Steve trails his fingers down from his pecs, grazing over his nipples and scratching lightly at his ribs before coming to dance at his navel. Steve takes the time to delight in the gooseflesh he’s left in his wake, revels in the way Bucky squirms under his touch, not-so-subtle movements of his hips letting Steve know how needy he is. 

“Shhh, sweetheart, I got you,” Steve murmurs, folding down over his body and shuffling back so he can get his mouth on Bucky’s chest. “Yeah, I loved watching you. You were amazing, sweetheart. That man never stood a chance, did he? He was dead the moment you opened your clever mouth,” he goes on, pressing kisses and sucking little red marks into Bucky’s skin in between words. 

Bucky whimpers, hips canting up off the bed now he can move them more freely, and Steve moves a thigh from the outside of his legs to between them and presses up. Bucky shudders, grinding down, and his hands come up to tug at Steve’s shirt. Steve chuckles, pulling back to appreciate the obscene mess of Bucky’s chest he’s made, and pulls his shirt off. 

Bucky’s watching him with hooded, hungry eyes, and Steve can’t do anything but drown in that look for a moment. “Gonna fuck me, baby?” Bucky asks when he’s apparently had enough of waiting, voice breathless. And he looks like an angel; cheeks flushed, eyes hazy, lips bitten and red. 

“Don’t have time for that, sweetheart, but how about I get you slicked up and fuck your thighs, huh?” he suggests, almost regretting not waiting to kill that man. But there’s something about this urgency that has his skin prickling with a new kind of arousal. 

Bucky whines, hands moving down to the front of Steve’s jeans, and he’s nodding, absolutely desperate. “Yeah, please,” he’s gasping, and Steve  _ growls,  _ catching Bucky’s wrists in one hand, pushing them up above his head, pinning them against the bed. 

Bucky just goes  _ pliant,  _ head rolling to the side as he  _ moans,  _ rutting against Steve’s thigh with renewed vigor. Steve chuckles, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along the side of Bucky’s neck. “Yeah? You want that, huh? God,  _ look _ at you,” he sighs, releasing him just long enough to sit up and watch him writhe and pant. 

Bucky shoots him a pleading look, keeping his hands where they are like a good boy, despite Steve having let them go. “Want it, please, Steve, I’m so  _ hard,  _ I’ve been hard since before you got that knife in that asshole’s  _ neck,”  _ he whines, and  _ fuck.  _ Steve’s dizzy with it all, hardly able to believe that he gets to see Bucky like this, that he gets to hear him say these things. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, of course you were. Don’t worry, I got you,” Steve reassures him, voice all breathy, and shifts to quickly remove both their pants and grab the lube from their bag. He climbs back on top of Bucky, resuming the position they were in before. He leans over him, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss that has both of them rutting up into each other, desperate whimpers and moans slipping out as they lick into each other’s mouths. 

And  _ God,  _ Steve’s so hard he can hardly think straight, so in love and in awe of Bucky that he’s dizzy with it. He wants to take his time,  _ loves  _ taking his time, but he can’t so he has to tear himself from Bucky’s mouth to sit up and pant, catching his breath as he gazes down at him. Bucky looks even more disheveled, and it drives Steve  _ wild,  _ knowing he gets to do this whenever they want. 

He groans, rocking his hips up against Bucky, basking in the sugar-sweet moan it pulls from Bucky, watches the way Bucky’s head drops to the side again and his eyes fall shut. Steve sighs, etching this moment into his brain before shifting off of him and patting at his hip. “Turn over for me, sweetheart,” he says, not at all surprised by how gravelly his voice his. 

Bucky whimpers and does as he’s told, moving so he’s on his front. He spreads his legs, bending his knees and pushing his hips up, unashamed. Steve groans, getting his hands on him immediately, pressing fever-hot kisses into his skin at the base of his spine, hands roaming over his ass and inner thighs, close to his dick but never touching. 

Bucky  _ shakes  _ with need, pushing his ass back, inviting Steve to  _ do something.  _ “Fuck,” Steve hisses, folding himself over Bucky’s back for a moment, dick pressed hard and leaking up into the crease of Bucky’s ass, teasing them both with the sensation. Bucky whimpers, breath coming in pants, and Steve catches Bucky’s hand before it can finish it’s path to his dick. 

“Don’t touch yourself, sweetheart,” he scolds. “Not yet,” and then he’s pulling away, resenting the need to do so even as he grabs the lube and begins working as getting Bucky’s inner thighs slicked up. 

Bucky whines at the coolness of the lube, before he’s a quivering mess again as it warms up. Steve lets his fingers brush Bucky’s dick just to see him jump, and then he can’t  _ take  _ it anymore. Like a rubber band he  _ snaps,  _ crowding up against Bucky, folding over him and pushing him down, trapping him against the bed. 

Bucky gasps, fists twisting in the covers, and he turns his head to the side to breath and Steve gets a good look at the dazed and  _ starving  _ expression on his face before he’s got a hand on his dick and he’s pressing it between Bucky’s slick thighs. He moans, rutting against Bucky and losing himself in the hot, wet feeling, his mouth finding purchase in the meat of Bucky’s shoulder. 

Bucky yelps at the bite of Steve’s teeth, but the sound tapers off into a whimper, and he’s pushing back against Steve, humping the covers, trying to get some friction on his own dick. Steve just doubles his efforts, hands holding Bucky down, mouthing at his skin and grunting like an  _ animal.  _ The obscene sound of skin slapping on skin and breathy gasps and moans fill the room. 

“God, sweetheart, you’re so good me, so sweet, so  _ perfect, _ ” Steve rambles, heat coiling low in his stomach, and his balls are pulling tight. He won’t last long, but that’s okay; they’re pushing the limits just by still being at the scene of the crime. 

The memory has his hips stuttering, and he lets out a low moan, hands tightening their grip they have at Bucky’s sides. “Yeah?” Bucky gasps. “I’m perfect, huh, baby?” he questions, like he doesn’t know it already. 

Steve groans, digging his teeth in again, and Bucky echoes the sound, eyes rolling in his head as Steve meets his gaze and  _ glares _ , hot and heavy. “You’re more than perfect,” Steve tells him, fingers digging into Bucky’s skin in a way that’s sure to leave bruises. He’ll kiss them better later. For now, he revels in the way the roughness draws even sweeter sounds from Bucky. “You’re fucking  _ divine,”  _ he growls, and shifts, pulling back just enough to gets his hands under Bucky’s hips and pull him up, changing the angle. 

Bucky keeps his thighs pressed hard together, despite the fact that he’s quivering with the effort now, and Steve rewards him by getting a hand on his dick. Bucky doesn’t quite scream, but the sound that comes straight from his chest is close enough that Steve’s hips stutter again and he has to bite back a shout himself. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ he gasps, trying to jack Bucky in time with his own erratic thrusts. “Fuck, you’re so good at luring people to their deaths, sweetheart, so good at bringing them to me to kill,” he pants, and Bucky shudders through a groan, his head hanging down as his dick jumps in Steve’s grip. 

“Yeah, Steve, baby, just for you, I’ll bring you anyone that deserves your knife,” he’s gasping, and Steve just  _ snarls,  _ snapping his hips in a desperate motion, chasing his own release even as he coaxes Bucky’s from him. 

“Yeah? God, you would, you’re so fucking  _ good,”  _ Steve swears, and just the thought of it, of him pointing at someone who’s condemned themselves to die and Bucky just following his order, Bucky using his sweet, innocent nature to lure them to Steve has Steve increasing his pace, so close he’s already seeing stars. 

Bucky’s close too, if the way he’s  _ really  _ shaking now is any indication. “Baby, I’m gonna—” Bucky cuts off with a moan that has Steve’s head reeling, and then Bucky’s coming, spilling over Steve’s hand, and yeah, Steve loses himself. 

His vision goes white and he fucks into Bucky’s thighs one more time before he’s digging his teeth back into Bucky’s shoulder and burying himself in the hot, wet heat. He comes  _ hard,  _ his brain flying off into the atmosphere as his body is flooded with searing ecstasy, tilting his world on its axis. He’s vaguely aware of Bucky batting his hand off his dick, but then he’s slumping like his strings have been cut and he traps Bucky’s body between his own and the bed. 

Bucky’s breathing hard, but he makes no noise of protest, so when Steve’s brain comes back online he just stays where he is. It takes him a moment to recover, but when he does he slides a hand up Bucky’s side and tangles fingers in his hair. Bucky hums, clearly still coming down himself, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Eventually, Steve remembers  _ why  _ they had to rush, and he lifts his head, wincing at the stickiness that covers both their lower halves. Bucky frowns, like he’s about to protest, but then Steve presses a kiss to the mottled teeth-shaped bruises he’s left on Bucky’s shoulder and his face smooths out into one of hazy content again. 

“Stay here, sweetheart. I’m just gonna get us something to clean up with, okay? But then we gotta move,” he murmurs, slowly sliding himself out from between Bucky’s thighs. 

Bucky just huffs, but Steve takes that as assent, so he stands on weak, uncoordinated legs and manages to get to the bathroom, where he finds a towel. He wets it and returns to find Bucky in the exact same position. It brings a fond smile to his face, and he sits on the edge of the bed with that same smile on his face. 

He cleans Bucky gently, wiping away come and lube and sweat, leaving him shivering at the cold of the towel. He kisses his forehead, his nose, his lips, and murmurs; “I love you.” 

And Bucky cracks open one eye, pillow creases decorating his cheeks, and grins. It’s the expression of someone who wholeheartedly adores the person they’re looking at, and it has Steve’s heart swelling in his chest. “I love you too,” Bucky says, and it’s like he’s sending a prayer up to heaven, the words reverent. 

Steve has to take a moment as he realises that this right here? This is his life. This; doing what he was born to do, making a difference in this world, and with  _ Bucky _ at his side.  _ This is his life.  _ He is blown away, taken aback as it really hits him, how lucky he is. How blessed. Like a gift from God himself, he has Bucky in his life helping him fulfill his purpose. 

And he smiles. He leans over Bucky and presses a kiss to his temple, so tender his own heart aches, and brushes Bucky’s hair back from his face. “Let’s go home, yeah?” he asks, smoothing a hand down Bucky’s back, taking comfort in just touching him. 

Bucky’s watching him and Steve gets the feeling that he knows exactly what he’s thinking. And the thing is, Steve  _ knows  _ like he’s never known anything else that Bucky returns the sentiment. 

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. “Let’s go home.” 

So they do. 

*

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I've just shrugged my way through this whole fic, like, here you go have another murder OH HO HO look at that they're getting off on talking about Bucky killing Steve how did _that_ happen whoops??? 
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> If you feel like screaming at me on main, hit me the fuck up over on good ol' tumblr.com @ [buckyskillingme.](https://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com)
> 
> Peace out.


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